^ tkMJ\ 

,.,A  r ’4*  ■* 


THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 

8\7 

H73a  < 


THE 


Autocrat 

OF 

THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE 


EVERY  MAN  HIS  OWN  BOSWELL 


NEW  AND  REVISED  EDITION 


WITH 

ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES 


nwMy  of  the 

f R 14  133/ 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS, 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

New  York:  11  East  Seventeenth  Street 

(2Tftf  Camlmbge 

1891 

% 


fcEN- 


Copyright,  1853, 1864, 1882,  and  1886, 
Bx  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


The  Riverside  Press , Cambridge , Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Printed  by  H.  0.  Houghton  & Company. 


117 


REMOTE  STORAGE 


TO  THE  READERS  OF  THE  AUTOCRAT 
OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


Twenty-five  years  more  have  passed  since 
the  silence  of  the  preceding  twenty-five  years 
was  broken  by  the  first  words  of  the  self-record- 
ing personage  who  lends  his  title  to  these  pages, 
in  the  “ Atlantic  Monthly  ” for  November,  1857. 
The  children  of  those  who  first  read  these  pa- 
pers as  they  appeared  are  still  reading  them  as 
kindly  as  their  fathers  and  mothers  read  them 
a quarter  of  a century  ago.  And  now,  for  the 
first  time  for  many  years,  I have  read  them  my- 
self, thinking  that  they  might  be  improved  by 
various  corrections  and  changes. 

But  it  is  dangerous  to  tamper  in  cold  blood 
and  in  after  life  with  what  was  written  in  the 
glow  of  an  earlier  period.  Its  very  defects  are 
a part  of  its  organic  individuality.  It  would 
spoil  any  character  these  records  may  have  to 
attempt  to  adjust  them  to  the  present  age  of 
the  world  or  of  the  author.  We  have  all  of  us, 

8(3517 


iv 


TO  THE  READER. 


writer  and  readers,  drifted  away  from  many  of 
our  former  habits,  tastes,  and  perhaps  beliefs. 
The  world  could  spare  every  human  being  who 
was  living  when  the  first  sentence  of  these  pa- 
pers was  written  ; its  destinies  would  be  safe  in 
the  hands  of  the  men  and  women  of  twenty-five 
years  and  under. 

This  book  was  written  for  a generation  which 
knew  pothing,  or  next  to  nothing,  of  war,  and 
hardly  dreamed  of  it  ; which  felt  as  if  invention 
must  have  exhausted  itself  in  the  miracles  it  had 
already  wrought.  To-day,  in  a small  sea-side 
village  of  a few  hundred  inhabitants,  I see  the 
graveyard  fluttering  with  little  flags  that  mark 
the  soldiers’  graves  ; we  read,  by  the  light  the 
rocks  of  Pennsylvania  have  furnished  for  us,  all 
that  is  most  important  in  the  morning  papers  of 
the  civilized  world;  the  lightning,  so  swift  to 
run  our  errands,  stands  shining  over  us,  white 
and  steady  as  the  moonbeams,  burning,  but  un- 
consumed; we  talk  with  people  in  the  neighbor- 
ing cities  as  if  they  were  at  our  elbow,  and  as 
our  equipages  flash  along  the  highway  the  si- 
lent bicycle  glides  by  us  and  disappears  in  the 
distance.  All  these  since  1857,  and  how  much 
more  than  these  changes  in  our  every-day  con- 
ditions ! I can  say  without  offence  to-day  that 
which  called  out  the  most  angry  feelings  and 


TO  THE  READER. 


V 


the  hardest  language  twenty-five  years  ago.  X 
may  doubt  everything  to-day  if  I will  only  do 
it  civilly. 

I cannot  make  over  again  the  book  and  those 
which  followed  it,  and  I will  not  try  to  mend 
old  garments  with  new  cloth.  Let  the  sensible 
reader  take  it  for  granted  that  the  author  would 
agree  with  him  in  changing  whatever  he  would 
alter,  in  leaving  out  whatever  he  would  omit,  if 
it  seemed  worth  while  to  tamper  with  what  was 
finished  long  ago.  The  notes  which  have  been 
added  will  not  interrupt  the  current  of  the  con- 
versational narrative. 

I can  never  be  too  grateful  for  the  tokens  of 
regard  which  these  papers  and  those  which  fol- 
lowed them  have  brought  me.  The  kindness  of 
my  far-off  friends  has  sometimes  over-taxed 
my  power  of  replying  to  them,  but  they  may  be 
assured  that  their  pleasant  words  were  always 
welcome,  however  insufficiently  acknowledged. 

I have  experienced  the  friendship  of  my  read- 
ers so  long  that  I cannot  help  anticipating  some 
measure  of  its  continuance.  If  I should  feel  the 
burden  of  correspondence  too  heavily  in  the 
coming  years,  I desire  to  record  in  advance  my 
gratitude  to  those  whom  I may  not  be  able  to 
thank  so  fully  and  so  cordially  as  I could  desire. 

Beverly  Farms,  Mass.,  August  29,  1882. 


THE  AUTOCKAT’S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

• 

interruption  referred  to  in  the  first 
tence  of  the  first  of  these  papers  was 
6 a quarter  of  a century  in  duration, 
wo  articles  entitled  “ The  Autocrat 
of  the  Breakfast-Table  ” will  be  found  in  “ The 
New  England  Magazine,”  formerly  published  in 
Boston  by  J.  T.  and  E.  Buckingham.  The  date 
of  the  first  of  these  articles  is  November,  1831,  and 
that  of  the  second,  February,  1832.  When  “ The 
Atlantic  Monthly  ” was  begun,  twenty-five  years 
afterwards,  and  the  author  was  asked  to  write  for 
it,  the  recollection  of  these  crude  products  of  his 
uncombed  literary  boyhood  suggested  the  thought 
that  it  would  be  a curious  experiment  to  shake  the 
same  bough  again,  and  see  if  the  ripe  fruit  were 
better  or  worse  than  the  early  windfalls. 

So  began  this  series  of  papers,  which  naturally 
brings  those  earlier  attempts  to  my  own  notice 


via  THE  AUTOCRAT'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

9 

and  that  of  some  few  friends  who  were  idle  enough 
to  read  them  at  the  time  of  their  publication.  The 
man  is  father  to  the  boy  that  was,  and  I am  my 
own  son,  as  it  seems  to  me,  in  those  papers  of  the 
New  England  Magazine.  If  I find  it  hard  to  par- 
don the  boy’s  faults,  others  would  find  it  harder. 
They  will  not,  therefore,  be  reprinted  here,  nor,  as 
I hope,  anywhere. 

But  a sentence  or  two  from  them  will  perhaps 
bear  reproducing,  and  with  these  I trust  the  gen- 
tle reader,  if  that  kind  being  still  breathes,  will  be 
contented. 

— “It  is  a capital  plan  to  carry  a tablet  with 

you,  and,  when  you  find  yourself  felicitous,  take 
notes  of  your  own  conversation.”  * 

— “ When  I feel  inclined  to  read  poetry  I take 
down  my  Dictionary.  The  poetry  of  words  is 
quite  as  beautiful  as  that  of  sentences.  The  au- 
thor may  arrange  the  gems  effectively,  but  theit 
shape  and  lustre  have  been  given  by  the  attrition 
of  ages.  Bring  me  the  finest  simile  from  the  whole 
range  of  imaginative  writing,  and  I will  show  you 
a single  word  which  conveys  a more  profound,  a 
more  accurate,  and  a more  eloquent  analogy.”  — 

— “ Once  on  a time,  a notion  was  started,  that 
if  all  the  people  in  the  world  would  shout  at  once, 
it  might  be  heard  in  the  moon.  So  the  projectors 
agreed  it  should  be  done  in  just  ten  years.  Some 
thousand  shiploads  of  chronometers  were  distribut- 
ed to  the  selectmen  and  other  great  folks  of  all  the 
different  nations.  For  a year  beforehand,  nothing 


THE  AUTOCRAT'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY,  ix 


else  was  talked  about  but  the  awful  noise  that  was 
to  be  made  on  the  great  occasion.  When  the  time 
came,  everybody  had  their  ears  so  wide  open , to  hear 
the  universal  ejaculation  of  Boo,  — the  word  agreed 
upon,  — that  nobody  spoke  except  a deaf  man  in 
one  of  the  Fejee  Islands,  and  a woman  in  Pekin, 
so  that  the  world  was  never  so  still  since  the  crea- 
tion.” — 

There  was  nothing  better  than  these  thing  5,  and 
there  was  not  a little  that  was  much  worse.  A 
young  fellow  of  two  or  three  and  twenty  has  as 
good  a right  to  spoil  a magazine-full  of  essays  in 
learning  how  to  write,  as  an  oculist  like  Wenzel 
had  to  spoil  his  hat-full  of  eyes  in  learning  how  to 
operate  for  cataract,  or  an  elegant  like  Brummel  to 
point  to  an  armful  of  failures  in  the  attempt  to 
achieve  a perfect  tie.  This  son  of  mine,  whom  I 
have  not  seen  for  these  twenty-five  years,  gener- 
ously counted,  was  a self-willed  youth,  always  too 
ready  to  utter  his  unchastised  fancies.  He,  like 
too  many  American  young  people,  got  the  spur 
when  he  should  have  had  the  rein.  He  therefore 
helped  to  fill  the  market  with  that  unripe  fruit 
which  his  father  says  in  one  of  these  papers  abounds 
in  the  marts  of  his  native  country.  All  these  by- 
gone shortcomings  he  would  hope  are  forgiven, 
did  he  not  feel  sure  that  very  few  of  his  readers 
know  anything  about  them.  In  taking  the  old 
name  for  the  new  papers,  he  felt  bound  to  say  that 


x THE  AUTOCRAT'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 


he  had  uttered  unwise  things  under  that  title,  and 
if  it  shall  appear  that  his  unwisdom  has  not  di- 
minished by  at  least  half  while  his  years  have 
doubled,  he  promises  not  to  repeat  the  experiment 
if  he  should  live  to  double  them  again  and  become 
his  own  grandfather. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


Boston,  November  1,  1858. 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


OF 

THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


? 


I 


THE  AUTOCRAT 

OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


I. 

WAS  just  going  to  say,  when  I was 
interrupted,  that  one  of  the  many  ways 
of  classifying  minds  is  under  the  heads 
of  arithmetical  and  algebraical  intel- 
lects. All  economical  and  practical  wisdom  is  an 
extension  or  variation  of  the  following  arithmet- 
ical formula : 2 + 2=4.  Every  philosophical 
proposition  has  the  more  general  character  of  the 
expression  a + 6 = c.  We  are  mere  operatives, 
empirics,  and  egotists,  until  we  learn  to  think  in 
letters  instead  of  figures. 

They  all  stared.  There  is  a divinity  student 
lately  come  among  us  to  whom  I commonly 
address  remarks  like  the  above,  allowing  him  to 
take  a certain  share  in  the  conversation,  so  far  as 
assent  or  pertinent  questions  are  involved.  He 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


abused  his  liberty  on  this  occasion  by  presuming 
to  say  that  Leibnitz  had  the  same  observation  — 
No,  sir,  I replied,  he  has  not.  But  he  said  a 
mighty  good  thing  about  mathematics,  that  sounds 
something  like  it,  and  you  found  it,  not  in  the 
original , but  quoted  by  Dr.  Thomas  Reid.  I will 
tell  the  company  what  he  did  say,  one  of  these 
days. 

If  I belong  to  a Society  of  Mutual  Ad- 
miration ? — I blush  to  say  that  I do  not  at  this 
present  moment.  I once  did,  however.  It  was 
the  first  association  to  which  I ever  heard  the 
term  applied ; a body  of  scientific  young  men  in 
a great  foreign  city 1 who  admired  their  teacher, 
and  to  some  extent  each  other.  Many  of  them 
deserved  it ; they  have  become  Tamous  since.  It 
amuses  me  to  hear  the  talk  of  one  of  those  beings 
described  by  Thackeray  — 

“ Letters  four  do  form  his  name  ” — 

about  a social  development  which  belongs  to  the 
very  noblest  stage  of  civilization.  All  generous 
companies  of  artists,  authors,  philanthropists,  men 
of  science,  are,  or  ought  to  be,  Societies  of  Mu- 
tual Admiration.  A man  of  genius,  or  any  kind 
of  superiority,  is  not  debarred  from  admiring  the 
same  quality  in  another,  nor  the  other  from  re- 
turning his  admiration.  They  may  even  associate 
together  and  continue  to  think  highly  of  each 
i Note  A,  Appendix. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 


3 


other.  And  so  of  a dozen  such  men,  if  any  one 
place  is  fortunate  enough  to  hold  so  many.  The 
being  referred  to  above  assumes  several  false  prem- 
ises. First,  that  men  of  talent  necessarily  hate 
each  other.  Secondly,  that  intimate  knowledge 
or  habitual  association  destroys  our  admiration 
of  persons  whom  we  esteemed  highly  at  a dis- 
tance. Thirdly,  that  a circle  of  clever  fellows, 
who  meet  together  to  dine  and  have  a good  time, 
have  signed  a constitutional  compact  to  glorify 
themselves,  and  to  put  down  him  and  the  fraction 
of  the  human  race  not  belonging  to  their  number. 
Fourthly,  that  it  is  an  outrage  that  he  is  not  asked 
to  join  them. 

Here  the  companv  laughed  a good  deal,  and  the 
old  gentleman  who  Wts  opposite  said,  “ That ’s  it ! 
that 's  it ! ” 

I continued,  for  I was  in  the  talking  vein.  As 
to  clever  people’s  hating  each  other,  I think  a little 
extra  talent  does  sometimes  make  people  jealous. 
They  become  irritated  by  perpetual  attempts  and 
failures,  and  it  hurts  their  tempers  and  dispo- 
sitions. Unpretending  mediocrity  is  good,  and 
genius  is  glorious ; but  a weak  flay  or  of  genius 
in  an  essentially  common  person  is  detestable. 
It  spoils  the  grand  neutrality  of  a commonplace 
character,  as  the  rinsings  of  an  unwashed  wine- 
glass spoil  a draught  of  fair  water.  No  wonder 
the  poor  fellow  we  spoke  of,  who  always  belongs 


4 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


to  this  class  of  slightly  flavored  mediocrities,  is 
puzzled  and  vexed  by  the  strange  sight  of  a dozen 
men  of  capacity  working  and  playing  together  in 
harmony.  He  and  his  fellows  are  always  fighting. 
With  them  familiarity  naturally  breeds  contempt. 
If  they  ever  praise  each  other’s  bad  drawings,  or 
broken-winded  novels,  or  spavined  verses,  nobody 
ever  supposed  it  was  from  admiration;  it  was 
simply  a contract  between  themselves  and  a pub- 
lisher or  dealer. 

If  the  Mutuals  have  really  nothing  among  them 
worth  admiring,  that  alters  the  question.  But  if 
they  are  men  with  noble  powers  and  qualities,  let 
me  tell  you,  that,  next  to  youthful  love  and  family 
affections,  there  is  no  human  sentiment  better  than 
that  which  unites  the  Societies  of  Mutual  Admi- 
ration. And  what  would  literature  or  art  be 
without  such  associations  ? Who  can  tell  what 
we  owe  to  the  Mutual  Admiration  Society  of 
which  Shakespeare,  and  Ben  Jonson,  and  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher  were  members  ? Or  to  that 
of  which  Addison  and  Steele  formed  the  centre, 
and  which  gave  us  the  Spectator  ? Or  to  that 
where  Johnson,  and  Goldsmith,  and  Burke,  and 
Reynolds,  and  Beauclerk,  and  Boswell,  most  ad- 
miring among  all  admirers,  met  together  ? Was 
there  any  great  harm  in  the  fact  that  the  Irvings 
and  Paulding  wrote  in  company?  or  any  unpar- 
donable cabal  in  the  literary  union  of  Verplanck 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


and  Bryant  and  Sands,  and  as  many  more  as 
they  chose  to  associate  with  them'? 

The  poor  creature  does  not  know  what  he  is 
talking  about,  when  he  abuses  this  noblest  of  in- 
stitutions. Let  him  inspect  its  mysteries  through 
the  knot-hole  he  has  secured,  but  not  use  that 
orifice  as  a medium  for  his  popgun.  Such  a soci- 
ety is  the  crown  of  a literary  metropolis  ; if  a town 
has  not  material  for  it,  and  spirit  and  good  feeling 
enough  to  organize  it,  it  is  a mere  caravansary,  fit 
for  a man  of  genius  to  lodge  in,  but  not  to  live  in 
Foolish  people  hate  and  dread  and  envy  such  an 
association  of  men  of  varied  powers  and  influence, 
because  it  is  lofty,  serene,  impregnable,  and,  by 
the  necessity  of  the  case,  exclusive.  Wise  ones 
are  prouder  of  the  title  M.  S.  M.  A.  than  of  all 
their  other  honors  put  together. 

All  generous  minds  have  a horror  of  what 

are  commonly  called  “ facts.”  They  are  the 
brute  beasts  of  the  intellectual  domain.  Who 
does  not  know  fellows  that  always  have  an  ill- 
conditioned  fact  or  two  which  they  lead  after  them 
into  decent  company  like  so  many  bull-dogs, 
ready  to  let  them  slip  at  every  ingenious  sugges- 
tion, or  convenient  generalization,  or  pleasant 
fancy  ? I allow  no  “ facts  ” at  this  table.  What ! 
Because  bread  is  good  and  wholesome  and  neces- 
sary and  nourishing,  shall  you  thrust  a crumb 
into  my  windpipe  while  I am  talking  'i  Do  not 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


these  muscles  of  mine  represent  a hundred  loaves 
of  bread  ? and  is  not  my  thought  the  abstract  of 
ten  thousand  of  these  crumbs  of  truth  with  which 
you  would  choke  off  my  speech ? 

[The  above  remark  must  be  conditioned  and 
qualified  for  the  vulgar  mind.  The  reader  will 
of  course  understand  the  precise  amount  of  season- 
ing which  must  be  added  to  it  before  he  adopts  it 
as  one  of  the  axioms  of  his  life.  The  speaker  dis- 
claims all  responsibility  for  its  abuse  in  incompe' 
tent  hands.] 

This  business  of  conversation  is  a very  serious 
matter.  There  are  men  that  it  weakens  one  to 
talk  with  an  hour  more  than  a day's  fasting  would 
do.  Mark  this  that  I am  going  to  say,  for  it  is  as 
good  as  a working  professional  man's  advice,  and 
costs  you  nothing  : ( It  is  better  to  lose  a pint  of 
blood  from  your  veins  than  to  have  a nerve  tapped. 
Nobody  measures  your  nervous  force  as  it  runs 
away,  nor  bandages  your  brain  and  marrow  after 
the  operation.'} 

There  are  men  of  esprit  who  are  excessively  ex- 
hausting to  some  people.  They  are  the  talkers 
who  have  what  may  be  called  jerky  minds.  Their 
thoughts  do  not  run  in  the  natural  order  of  se- 
quence. They  say  bright  things  on  all  possible 
subjects,  but  their  zigzags  rack  you  to  death. 
After  a jolting  half-hour  with  one  of  these  jerky 
companions,  talking  with  a dull  friend  affords 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


7 


great  relief.  It  is  like  taking  the  cat  in  your  lap 
after  holding  a squirrel. 

What  a comfort  a dull  but  kindly  person  is,  to 
be  sure,  at  times  ! A ground-glass  shade  over  a 
gas-lamp  does  not  bring  more  solace  to  our  dazzled 
eyes  than  such  a one  to  our  minds. 

“ Do  not  dull  people  bore  you  % ” said  one  of 
the  lady-boarders,  — the  same  that  sent  me  her 
autograph-book  last  week  with  a request  for  a few 
original  stanzas,  not  remembering  that  “ The  Pacv- 
tolian  ” pays  me  five  dollars  a line  for  everything 
I write  in  its  columns. 

“ Madam,”  said  I,  (she  and  the  century  were  in 
their  teens  together,)  “all  men  are  bores,  except 
when  we  want  them.  There  never  was  but  one 
man  whom  I would  trust  with  my  latch-key.” 

“ Who  might  that  favored  person  be  ? ” 

“ Zimmermann.”1 

The  men  of  genius  that  I fancy  most  have 

erectile  heads  like  the  cobra-di-capello.  You  re- 
member what  they  tell  of  William  Pinkney,  the 
great  pleader ; how  in  his  eloquent  paroxysms  the 
veins  of  his  neck  would  swell  and  his  face  flush 
and  his  eyes  glitter,  until  he  seemed  on  the  verge 
of  apoplexy.  The  hydraulic  arrangements  for  sup- 
plying the  brain  with  blood  are  only  second  in 
importance  to  its  own  organization.  The  bulbous- 
headed fellows  that  steam  well  when  they  are  at 
work  are  the  men  that  draw  big  audiences  and 
1 Note  B. 


8 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


give  us  marrowy  books  and  pictures.  It  is  u good 
sign  to  have  one's  feet  grow  cold  when  he  is  writ- 
ing. A great  writer  and  speaker  once  told  me 
that  he  often  wrote  with  his  feet  in  hot  water ; 
but  for  this,  all  his  blood  would  have  run  into  his 
head,  as  the  mercury  sometimes  withdraws  into 
the  ball  of  a thermometer. 

You  don't  suppose  that  my  remarks  made 

at  this  table  are  like  so  many  postage-stamps,  do 
you,  — each  to  be  only  once  uttered  ? If  you  do, 
you  are  mistaken.  He  must  be  a poor  creature 
that  does  not  often  repeat  himself.  Imagine  the 
author  of  the  excellent  piece  of  advice,  “ Know 
thyself,"  never  alluding  to  that  sentiment  again 
during  the  course  of  a protracted  existence  ! Why, 
the  truths  a man  carries  about  with  him  are  his 
tools ; and  do  you  think  a carpenter  is  bound  to 
use  the  same  plane  but  once  to  smooth  a knotty 
board  with,  or  to  hang  up  his  hammer  after  it 
has  driven  its  first  nail  ? I shall  never  repeat  a 
conversation,  but  an  idea  often.  I shall  use  the 
same  types  when  I like,  but  not  commonly  the 
same  stereotypes.  A thought  is  often  original, 
though  you  have  uttered  it  a hundred  times.  It 
has  come  to  you  over  a new  route,  by  a new  and 
express  train  of  associations. 

Sometimes,  but  rarely,  one  may  be  caught 
making  the  same  speech  twice  over,  and  yet  be  held 
blameless.  Thus,  a certain  lecturer,  after  per- 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TAB^ 


forming  in  an  inland  city,  where  dwells  a L, 
trice  of  note,  was  invited  to  meet  her  and  otht 
aver  the  social  teacup.  She  pleasantly  referred  to 
his  many  wanderings  in  his  new  occupation. 
“ Yes,”  he  replied,  “ I am  like  the  Huma,  the 
bird  that  never  lights,  being  always  in  the  cars,  as 
he  is  always  on  the  wing.”  — Years  elapsed.  The 
lecturer  visited  the  same  place  once  more  for  the 
same  purpose.  Another  social  cup  after  the  lec- 
ture, and  a second  meeting  with  the  distinguished 
lady.  “ You  are  constantly  going  from  place  to 
place,”  she  said.  — “ Yes,”  he  answered,  “ 1 am 
like  the  Huma,1  ” — and  finished  the  sentence  as 
before. 

What  horrors,  when  it  flashed  over  him  that  he 
had  made  this  fine  speech,  word  for  word,  twice 
over  ! Yet  it  was  not  true,  as  the  lady  might  per- 
haps have  fairly  inferred,  that  he  had  embellished 
his  conversation  with  the  Huma  daily  during  that 
whole  interval  of  years.  On  the  contrary,  he  had 
never  once  thought  of  the  odious  fowl  until  the 
recurrence  of  precisely  the  same  circumstances 
brought  up  precisely  the  same  idea.  He  ought 
to  have  been  proud  of  the  accuracy  of  his  mental 
adjustments.  Given  certain  factors,  and  a sound 
brain  should  always  evolve  the  same  fixed  product 
with  the  certainty  of  Babbage’s  calculating  ma- 
chine. 

What  a satire,  by  the  way,  is  that  machine 

i Noten. 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


.e  mere  mathematician ! A Frankenstein- 

mster,  a thing  without  brains  and  without  heart, 
too  stupid  to  make  a blunder ; that  turns  out  re- 
sults like  a corn-sheller,  and  never  grows  any  wiser 
or  better,  though  it  grind  a thousand  bushels  of 
them ! 

I have  an  immense  respect  for  a man  of  talents 
plus  “ the  mathematics.”  But  the  calculating 
power  alone  should  seem  to  be  the  least  human 
of  qualities,  and  to  have  the  smallest  amount  of 
reason  in  it ; since  a machine  can  be  made  to  do 
the  work  of  three  or  four  calculators,  and  better 
than  any  one  of  them.  Sometimes  I have  been 
troubled  that  I had  not  a deeper  intuitive  appre- 
hension of  the  relations  of  numbers.  But  the 
triumph  of  the  ciphering  hand-organ  has  consoled 
me.  I always  fancy  I can  hear  the  wheels  click- 
ing in  a calculator’s  brain.  The  power  of  dealing 
with  numbers  is  a kind  of  “ detached  lever  ” ar- 
rangement, which  may  be  put  into  a mighty  poor 
watch.  I suppose  it  is  about  as  common  as  the 
power  of  moving  the  ears  voluntarily,  which  is  a 
moderately  rare  endowment. 

Little  localized  powers,  and  little  narrow 

streaks  of  specialized  knowledge,  are  things  men 
are  very  apt  to  be  conceited  about.  Nature  is  very 
wise ; but  for  this  encouraging  principle  how  many 
small  talents  and  little  accomplishments  would  be 
neglected ! Talk  about  conceit  as  much  as  you 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


1 1 

like,  it  is  to  human  character  what  salt  is  to  the 
ocean ; it  keeps  it  sweet,  and  renders  it  endurable. 
Say  rather  it  is  like  the  natural  unguent  of  the 
sea-fowl's  plumage,  which  enables  him  to  shed  the 
rain  that  falls  on  him  and  the  wave  in  which  he 
dips.  When  one  has  had  all  his  conceit  taken  out  of 
him,  when  he  has  lost  all  his  illusions,  his  feathers 
will  soon  soak  through,  and  he  will  fly  no  more. 

“ So  you  admire  conceited  people,  do  you  ? ” 
said  the  young  lady  who  has  come  to  the  city  to 
be  finished  off  for  — the  duties  of  life. 

I am  afraid  you  do  not  study  logic  at  your 
school,  my  dear.  It  does  not  follow  that  I wish 
to  be  pickled  in  brine  because  I like  a salt-water 
plunge  at  Nahant.  I say  that  conceit  is  just  as 
natural  a thing  to  human  minds  as  a centre  is  to 
a circle.  ^ But  little-minded  people’s  thoughts  move 
in  such  small  circles  that  five  minutes’  conversation 
gives  you  an  arc  long  enough  to  determine  their 
whole  curve.^  An  arc  in  the  movement  of  a large 
intellect  does  not  sensibly  differ  from  a straight 
line.  Even  if  it  have  the  third  vowel  as  its  cen- 
tre, it  does  not  soon  betray  it.  The  highest 
thought,  that  is,  is  the  most  seemingly  imperson- 
al ; it  does  not  obviously  imply  any  individual 
centre. 

Audacious  self-esteem,  with  good  ground  for  it, 
is  always  imposing.  What  resplendent  beauty 
that  must  have  been  which  could  have  authorized 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


I 2 

Phryne  to  “ peel  ” in  the  way  she  did  ! What  fine 
speeches  are  those  two  : “ Non  omnis  monar”  and 
“ I have  taken  all  knowledge  to  be  my  province  ” ! 
Even  in  common  people,  conceit  has  the  virtue  of 
making  them  cheerful ; the  man  who  thinks  his 
wife,  his  baby,  his  house,  his  horse,  his  dog,  and 
himself  severally  unequalled,  is  almost  sure  to  be  a 
good-humored  person,  though  liable  to  be  tedious 
at  times. 

What  are  the  great  faults  of  conversation  ? 

Want  of  ideas,  want  of  words,  want  of  manners, 
are  the  principal  ~ones,  I suppose  you  think.  I 
don’t  doubt  it,  but  I will  tell  you  what  I have 
found  spoil  more  good  talks  than  anything  else  ; 

long  arguments  on  special  points  between  peo- 
ple who  differ  on  the  fundamental  principles  upon 
which  these  points  depend.  , No  men  can  have  sat- 
isfactory relations  with  eatm  other  until  they  have 
agreed  on  certain  ultimata  of  belief  not  to  be  dis* 
turbed  in  ordinary  conversation,  and  unless  they 
have  sense  enough  to  trace  the  secondary  ques- 
tions depending  upon  these  ultimate  beliefs  to  their 
source.  In  short,  just  as  a written  constitution  is 
essential  to  the  best  social  order,  so  a code  of  final- 
ities is  a necessary  condition  of  profitable  talk  be- 
tween two  persons.  Talking  is  like  playing  on 
the  harp ; there  is  as  much  in  laying  the  hand  on 
the  strings  to  stop  their  vibrations  as  in  twanging 
them  to  bring  out  their  music. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


'1 


Do  you  mean  to  say  the  pun-question  is 

not  clearly  settled  in  your  minds'?  Let  me  lay 
down  the  law  upon  the  subject.  Life  and  lan- 
guage are  alike  sacred.  Homicide  and  verbicide  — 
that  is,  violent  treatment  of  a word  with  fatal  re- 
sults to  its  legitimate  meaning,  which  is  its  life  — 
are  alike  forbidden.  Manslaughter,  which  is  the 
meaning  of  the  one,  is  the  same  as  man's  laugh- 
ter, which  is  the  end  of  the  other.  A pun  is  prima 
facie  an  insult  to  the  person  you  are  talking  with. 

It  implies  utter  indifference  to  or  sublime  contempt 
for.  his  remarks,  no  matter  how  serious.  I speak 
of  total  depravity,  and  one  says  all  that  is  written 
on  the  subject  is  deep  raving.  I have  committed 
my  self-respect  by  talking  with  such  a person.  I 
should  like  to  commit  him,  but  cannot,  because  he 
is  a nuisance.  Or  I speak  of  geological  convul- 
sions, and  he  asks  me  what  was  the  cosine  of 
Noah’s  ark ; also,  whether  the  Deluge  was  not  a 
deal  huger  than  any  modern  inundation. 

A pun  does  not  com monly  justify  a blow  in  re-1 
turn.  But  if  a blow  were  given  for  such  cause,! 
and  death  ensued,  the  jury  would  be  judges  both  .. 
of  the  facts  and  of  the  pun,  and  might,  if  the  lat- 
ter were  of  an  aggravated  character,  return  a verdict 
of  justifiable  homicide.  Thus,  in  a case  lately  de- 
cided before  Miller,  J.,  Doe  presented  Roe  a sub- 
scription paper,  and  urged  the  claims  of  suffering 
humanity.  Roe  replied  by  asking,  When  charity 


14 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


was  like  a top  1 It  was  in  evidence  that  Doe  pre- 
served a dignified  silence.  Roe  then  said,  “ When 
it  begins  to  hum.”  Doe  then  — and  not  till  then 
— struck  Roe,  and  his  head  happening  to  hit  a 
bound  volume  of  the  Monthly  Rag-bag  and  Stolen 
Miscellany,  intense  mortification  ensued,  with  a 
fatal  result.  The  chief  laid  down  his  notions  of 
the  law  to  his  brother  justices,  who  unanimously 
replied  “Jest  so.”  The  chief  rejoined,  that  no 
man  should  jest  so  without  being  punished  for  it, 
and  charged  for  the  prisoner,  who  was  acquitted, 
and  the  pun  ordered  to  be  burned  by  the  sheriff. 
The  bound  volume  was  forfeited  as  a deodand,  but 
not  claimed. 

People  that  make  puns  are  like  wanton  boys 
that  put  coppers  on  the  railroad  tracks.  They 
amuse  themselves  and  other  children,  but  their  lit- 
tle trick  may  upset  a freight  train  of  conversation 
for  the  sake  of  a battered  witticism. 

I will  thank  you,  B.  F.,  to  bring  down  two 
books,  of  which  I will  mark  the*  places  on  this 
slip  of  paper.  (While  he  is  gone,  I may  say  that 
this  boy,  our  landlady’s  youngest,  is  called  Benja- 
min Franklin,  after  the  celebrated  philosopher  of 
that  name.  A highly  merited  compliment.) 

I wished  to  refer  to  two  eminent  authorities. 
Now  be  so  good  as  to  listen.  The  great  moralist 
says : To  trifle  with  the  vocabulary  which  is  the 

vehicle  of  social  intercourse  is  to  tamper  with  the 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


*5 

currency  of  human  intelligence.  He  who  would 
violate  the  sanctities  of  his  mother  tongue  wrould 
invade  the  recesses  of  the  paternal  till  without  re- 
morse, and  repeat  the  banquet  of  Saturn  without 
an  indigestion.”  \ 

And,  once  more,  listen  to  the  historian.  “ The 
Puritans  hated  puns.  The  Bishops  were  noto- 
riously addicted  to  them.  The  Lords  Temporal 
carried  them  to  the  verge  of  license.  Majesty  it- 
self must  have  its  Royal  quibble.  * Ye  be  burly, 
my  Lord  of  Burleigh*/  said  Queen  Elizabeth,  ‘ but 
ye  shall  make  less  stir  in  our  realm  than  my  Lord 
of  Leicester/  The  gravest  wisdom  and  the  high- 
est breeding  lent  their  sanction  to  the  practice. 
Lord  Bacon  playfully  declared  himself  a descend- 
ant of  'Og,  the  King  of  Bashan.  Sir  Philip  Sid- 
ney, with  his  last  breath,  reproached  the  soldier 
who  brought  him  water,  for  wasting  a casque  full 
upon  a dying  man.  A courtier,  -who  saw  Othello 
performed  at  the  Globe  Theatre,  remarked,  that  the 
blackamoor  was  a brute,  and  not  a man.  * Thou 
hast  reason/  replied  a great  Lord,  ‘ according  to 
Plato  his  saying ; for  this  be  a two-legged  animal 
with  feathers/  The  fatal  habit  became  universal. 
The  language  was  corrupted.  The  infection  spread 
to  the  national  conscience.  Political  double-deal- 
ings naturally  grew  out  of  verbal  double  mean- 
ings. The  teeth  of  the  new  dragon  were  sown  by 
the  Cadmus  who  introduced  the  alphabet  of  equiv- 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


16 

ocation.  What  was  levity  in  the  time  of  the 
Tudors  grew  to  regieide  and  revolution  in  the 
age  of  the  Stuarts.” 

Who  was  that  boarder  that  just  whispered  some- 
thing about  the  Macaulay-flowers  of  literature  ? — 
There  was  a dead  silence.  — I said  calmly,  I shall 
henceforth  consider  any  interruption  by  a pun  as  a 
hint  to  change  my  boarding-house.  Do  not  plead 
my  example.  If  I have  used  any  such,  it  has  been 
only  as  a Spartan  father  would  show  up  a drunk- 
en helot.  We ’have  done  with  them. 

If  a logical  mind  ever  found  out  anything 

with  its  logic?  — I should  say  that  its  most  fre- 
quent work  was  to  build  a pons  asinorum  over 
chasms  which  shrewd  people  can  bestride  without 
such  a structure.  You  can  hire  logic,  in  the  shape 
of  a lawyer,  to  prove  anything  that  you  want  to 
prove.  You  can  buy  treatises  to -show  that  Napo- 
leon never  lived,  and  that  no  battle  of  Bunker-hill 
was  ever  fought.  The  great  minds  are  those  with 
a wide  span,1  which  couple  truths  related  to,  but 
far  removed  from,  each  other.  Logicians  carry 
the  surveyor’s  chain  over  the  track  of  which  these 
are  the  true  explorers.  I value  a man  mainly  for 
his  primary  relations  with  truth,  as  I understand 
truth,  — not  for  any  secondary  artifice  in  handling 
his  ideas.  Some  of  the  sharpest  men  in  argument 
are  notoriously  unsound  in  judgment.  I should 
not  trust  the  counsel  of  a clever  debater,  any  more 
i Note  D. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 


17 


than  that  of  a good  chess-player.  Either  may  of 
course  advise  wisely,  but  not  necessarily  because 
he  wrangles  or  plays  well.  A | 

The  old  gentleman  who  sits  opposite  got  hi^| 
hand  up,  as  a pointer  lifts  his  forefoot,  at  the  ex^H 
pression,  “ hi4relations  with  truth,  as  I understands 
truth,' ” and  when  I had  done,  sniffed  audibly,  a*<t 
said  I talked  like  a transcendentalist.  For  his 
part,  common  sense  was  good  enough  for  him. 

Precisely  so,  my  dear  sir,  I replied ; common 
sense,  as  you  understand  it.  We  all%ave  to  assume 
a standard  of  judgment  in  our  own  minds,  either 
of  things  or  persons.  A man  who  is  willing  to 
take  another’s  opinion  has  to  exercise  his  judg- 
ment in  the  choice  of  whom  to  follow,  which  is 
often  as  nice  a matter  as  to  judge  of  things  for 
one’s  self.  On  the  whole,  I had  rather  judge 
men’s  minds  by  comparing  their  thoughts  with 
my  own,  than  judge  of  thoughts  by  knowing  who 
utter  them.  I must  do  one  or  the  other.  It  does 
not  follow,  of  course,  that  I may  not  recognize  an- 
other man’s  thoughts  as  broader  and  deeper  than 
my  own  ; but  that  does  not  necessarily  change  my 
opinion,  otherwise  this  would  be  at  the  mercy  of 
every  superior  mind  that  held  a different  one. 
How  many  of  our  most  cherished  beliefs  are  like 
those  drinking-glasses  of  the  ancient  pattern,  that 
serve  us  well  so  long  as  we  keep  them  in  our  hand, 
but  spill  all  if  we  attempt  to  set  them  down ! I 
2 


18 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


have  sometimes  compared  conversation  to  the  Ital- 
ian game  of  morn,  in  which  one  player  lifts  his 
Lhand  with  so  many  fingers  extended,  and  the  other 
Lgives  the  number  if  he  can.  I show  my  thought, 
Lanother  his  ; if  they  agree,  well ; rfthey  differ,  we 
- find  the  largest  common  factor,  if  we  can,  but  at 
^my  rate  avoid  disputing  about  remainders  and 
fractions,  which  is  to  real  talk  what  tuning  an  in- 
strument is  to  playing  on  it. 

What  if,  instead  of  talking  this  morning, 

I should  read  you  a copy  of  verses,  with  critical 
remarks  by  the  author  ? Any  of  the  company  can 
retire  that  like. 


ALBUM  VERSES. 

When  Eve  had  led  her  lord  away, 

And  Cain  had  killed  his  brother, 

The  stars  and  flowers,  the  poets  say, 

Agreed  with  one  another 

To  cheat  the  cunning  tempter’s  art, 

And  teach  the  race  its  duty, 

By  keeping  on  its  wicked  heart 
Their  eyes  of  light  and  beauty. 

A million  sleepless  lids,  they  say, 

Will  be  at  least  a warning  ; 

And  so  the  flowers  would  watch  by  day, 

The  stars  from  eve  to  morning. 

On  hill  and  prairie,  field  and  lawn, 

Their  dewy  eyes  upturning, 

The  flowers  still  watch  from  reddening  dawn 
Till  western  skies  are  burning. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

Alas  ! each  hour  of  daylight  tells 
A tale  of  shame  so  crushing,  * 

That  some  turn  white  as  sea-bleached  shells, 
And  some  are  always  blushing. 

But  when  the  patient  stars  look  down  • 
On  all  their  light  discovers, 

The  traitor’s  smile,  the  murderer’s  frown, 
The  lips  of  lying  lovers, 


They  try  to  shut  their  saddening  eyes, 
And  in  the  vain  endeavor 
We  see  them  twinkling  in  the  skies, 
And  so  they  wink  forever.  * 


What  do  you  think  of  these  verses  my  friends  ? — 
Is  that  piece  an  impromptu  ? said  my  landlady’s 
daitghteix  (iEt.  19+.  Tender-eyed  blonde.  Long 
ringlets.  Cameo  pin.  Gold  pencil-case  on  a chain. 
Locket.  Bracelet.  Album.  Autograph  book. 
Accordeon.  Reads  Byron,  Tupper,  and  Sylvan  us 
Cobb,  junior,  while  her  mother  makes  the  puddings. 
Says,  “ Yes  ? ” when  you  tell  her  anything.)  — 
Oui  et  non , ma  petite , — Yes  and  no,  my  child.  Five 
of  the  seven  verses  were  written  off-hand  ; the  other 
two  took  a week,  — that  is,  were  hanging  round 
the  desk  in  a ragged,  forlorn,  unrhymed  condition 
as  long  as  that.  All  poets  will  tell  you  just  such 
stories.  C’est  le  dernier  pas  qui  coute.  Don’t 
you  know  how  hard  it  is  for  some  people  to  get 
out  of  a room  after  their  visit  is  really  over  ? They 
want  to  be  off,  and  you  want  to  have  them  off,  but 
they  don’t  know  how  to  manage  it.  One  would 


20 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


think  they  had  been  built  in  your  parlor  or  study, 
nd  were  waiting  to  be  launched.  I have  con- 
ived  a sort  of  ceremonial  inclined  plane  for  such 
itors,  which  being  lubricated  with  certain  smooth 
“ases,  I back  them  down,  metaphorically  speak- 
stern-foremost,  into  their  “native  element,” 
* great  ocean  of  out-doors.  Well,  now,  there  are 
poems  as  hard  to  get  rid  of  as  these  rural  visitors. 
They  come  in  glibly,  use  up  all  the  serviceable 
rhymes,  day,  rag,  beauty , duty,  skies,  eyes,  other,  brother , 
mountain,  fountain,  and  the  like ; and  so  they  go  on 
until  you  think  it  is  time  for  the  wind-up,  and  the 
wind-up  won’t  come  on  any  terms.  So  they  lie 
about  until  you  get  sick  of  the  sight  of  them,  and 
end  by  thrusting  some  cold  scrap  of  a final  couplet 
upon  them,  and  turning  them  out  of  doors.  I sus- 
pect a good  many  “ impromptus  ” could  tell  just 
such  a story  as  the  above.  — Here  turning  to  our 
landlady,  I used  an  illustration  which  pleased  the 
company  much  at  the  time,  and  has  since  been 
highly  commended.  “ Madam,”  I said,  “ you  can 
pour  three  gills  and  three  quarters  of  honey  from 
that  pint  jug,  if  it  is  full,  in  less  than  one  minute ; 
but,  Madam,  you  could  not  empty  that  last  quarter 
of  a gill,  though  you  were  turned  into  a marble 
Hebe,  and  held  the  vessel  upside  down  for  a thou- 
sand years. 

One  gets  tired  to  death  of  the  old,  old  vhymes, 
such  as  you  see  in  that  copy  of  verses,  — which  I 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 


21 


don’t  mean  to  abuse,  or  to  praise  either.  I always 
feel  as  if  I were  a cobbler,  putting  new  top-leathers 
to  an  old  pair  of  boot-soles  and  bodies,  when  I a 
fitting  sentiments  to  these  venerable  jingles. 

. . . youth 

. . . . morning 

....  truth 

. . . . warning. 

• Nine  tenths  of  the  “ Juvenile  Poems”  written 
spring  out  of  the  above  musical  and  suggestive  co- 
incidences. 

“ Yes  ? ” said  our  landlady’s  daughter. 

I did  not  address  the  following  remark  to  her, 
and  I trust,  frpm  her  limited  range  of  reading, 
she  will  never  see  it ; I said  it  softly  to  my  next 
neighbor. 

When  a young  female  wears  a flat  circular  side- 
curl,  gummed  on  each  temple,  — when  she  walks 
with  a male,  not  arm  in  arm,  but  his  arm  against 
the  back  of  hers,  — and  when  she  says  “ Yes  ? ” 
with  the  note  of  interrogation,  you  are  generally 
safe  in  asking  her  what  wages  she  gets,  and  who 
the  “ feller  ” was  you  saw  her  with. 

“ What  were  you  whispering  ? ” said  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  house,  moistening  her  lips,  as  she  spoke, 
in  a very  engaging  manner. 

“ I was  only  laying  down  a principle  of  social 
diagnosis.*’ 

“ Yes  ? ” 


22  THE  AUTOCRAT 

It  is  curious  to  see  how  the  same  wants 

I and  tastes  find  the  same  implements  and  modes 
pf  expression  in  all  times  and  places.  The  young 
ladies  of  Otaheite,  as  you  may  see  in  Cook’s  Voy- 
^es,  had  a sort  of  crinoline  arrangement  fully 
fcual  in  radius  to  the  largest  spread  of  our  own 
lady-baskets.  When  I fling  a Bay-State  shawl 
over  my  shoulders,  I am  only  taking  a lesson 
from  the  climate  that  the  Indian  had  learned  be- 
fore me.  A blanket- shawl  we  call  it,  and  not  a 
plaid ; and  we  wear  it  like  the  aborigines,  and  not 
like  the  Highlanders. 

We  are  the  Homans  of  the  modern  world, 

• — the  great  assimilating  people.  Conflicts  and 
conquests  are  of  course  necessary  accidents  with 
us,  as  with  our  prototypes.  And  so  we  come  to 
their  style  of  weapon.  Our  army  sword  is  the 
short,  stiff,  pointed  c/ladius  of  the  Romans ; and 
the  American  bowie-knife  is  the  same  tool,  modi- 
fied to  meet  the  daily  wants  of  civil  society.  I 
announce  at  this  table  an  axiom  not  to  be  found 
in  Montesquieu  or  the  journals  of  Congress  : — 
The  race  that  shortens  its  weapons  lengthens 
its  boundaries. 

Corollary.  It  was  the  Polish  lance  that  left 
Poland  at  last  with  nothing  of  her  own  to  bound. 

K Dropped  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shattered  spear  ! v 

What  business  had  Sarmatia  to  be  fighting  for 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


23 

liberty  with  a fifteen-foot  pole  between  her  and  the. 
breasts  of  her  enemies  1 If  she  had  but  clutched 
the  old  Roman  and  young  American  weapon,  and« 
come  to  close  quarters,  there  might  have  been  a, 
chance  for  her ; but  it  would  have  spoiled  the  bes ji 
passage  in  the  “ Pleasures  of  Hope." 

Self-made  men?  — Well,  yes.  Of  course 

everybody  likes  and  respects  self-made  men.  It 
is  a great  deal  better  to  be  made  in  that  way  than 
not  to  be  made  at  all.  Are  any  of  you  younger 
people  old  enough  to  remember  that  Irishman's 
house  on  the  marsh  at  Cambridgeport,  which 
house  he  built  from  drain  to  chimney- top  with  his 
own  hands?  .It  took  him  a good  many  years  to 
build  it,  and  one  could  see  that  it  was  a little  out 
of  plumb,  and  a little  wavy  in  outline,  and  a little 
queer  and  uncertain  in  general  aspect.  A regular 
hand  could  certainly  have  built  a better  house ; 
but  it  was  a very  good  house  for  a “ self-made 99 
carpenter's  house,  and  people  praised  it,  and  said 
how  remarkably  well  the  Irishman  had  succeeded' 
They  never  thought  of  praising  the  fine  blocks  of 
houses  a little  farther  on. 

Your  self-made  man,  whittled  into  shape  with 
his  own  jackknife,  deserves  more  credit,  if  that  is 
all,  than  the  regular  engine  turned  article,  shaped 
by  the  most  approved  pattern,  and  French-polished 
by  society  and  travel.  But  as  to  saying  that  one 
is  every  way  the  equal  of  the  other,  that  is  another 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


24 

matter.  The  right  of  strict  social  discrimination 
of  all  things  and  persons,  according  to  their  merits, 
native  or  acquired,  is  one  of  the  most  precious 
* republican  privileges.  I take  the  liberty  to  ex- 
pertise it,  when  I say,  that,  other  things  being  equal , 
In  most  relations  of  life  I prefer  a man  of  family. 

What  do  I mean  by  a man  of  family  7 — O,  I 'll 
give  you  a general  idea  of  what  I mean.  Let  us 
give  him  a first-rate  fit  out ; it  costs  us  nothing. 

Four  or  five  generations  of  gentlemen  and 
gentlewomen  ; among  them  a member  of  his  Ma- 
jesty's Council  for  the  Province,  a Governor  or  so, 
one  or  two  Doctors  of  Divinity,  a member  of 
Congress,  not  later  than  the  time  of  long  boots 
with  tassels. 

Family  portraits.1  The  member  of  the  Council, 
by  Smibert.  The  great  merchant-uncle,  by  Cop- 
ley, full  length,  sitting  in  his  arm-chair,  in  a vel- 
vet cap  and  flowered  robe,  with  a globe  by  him, 
to  show  the  range  of  his  commercial  transactions, 
and  letters  with  large  red  seals  lying  round,  one 
directed  conspicuously  to  The  Honorable,  etc.,  etc. 
Great-grandmother,  by  the  same  artist ; brown 
satin,  lace  very  fine,  hands  superlative ; grand  old 
lady,  stifhsh,  but  imposing.  Her  mother,  artist 
unknown  ; flat,  angular,  hanging  sleeves ; parrot 
on  list.  A pair  of  Stuarts,  viz.,  1.  A superb  full- 
blown, medissval  gentleman,  with  a fiery  dash  of 
Tory  blood  in  his  veins,  tempered  down  with  that 
i Note  E. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  25 

of  a line  old  rebel  grandmother,  and  warmeti  up 
with  the  best  of  old  India  Madeira;  his  face  is 
one  flame  of  ruddy  sunshine ; his  ruffled  shirt 
rushes  out  of  his  bosom  with  an  impetuous  gener- 
osity, as  if  it  would  drag  his  heart  after  it ; and 
his  smile  is  good  for  twenty  thousand  dollars  to 
the  Hospital,  besides  ample  bequests  to  all  rela- 
tives and  dependants.  2.  Lady  of  the  same ; re- 
markable cap ; high  waist,  as  in  time  of  Empire ; 
bust  a la  Josephine ; wisps  of  curls,  like  celery- tips, 
at  sides  of  forehead  ; complexion  clear  and  warm, 
like  rose-cordial.  As  for  the  miniatures  by  Mal- 
bone,  we  don’t  count  them  in  the  gallery. 

Books,  too/ with  the  names  of  old  college-stu- 
dents in  them,  — family  names  ; — you  will  find 
them  at  the  head  of  their  respective  classes  in  the 
days  when  students  took  rank  on  the  catalogue 
from  their  parents’  condition.  Elzevirs,  with  the 
Latinized  appellations  of  youthful  progenitors,  and 
Hie  liber  est  meus  on  the  title-page.  A set  of 
Hogarth’s  original  plates.  Pope,  original  edition, 
15  volumes,  London,  1717.  Barrow  on  the  lower 
shelves,  in  folio.  Tillotson  on  the  upper,  in  a 
little  dark  platoon  of  octo-decimos. 

Some  family  silver ; a string  of  wedding  and 
funeral  rings ; the  arms  of  the  family  curiously 
blazoned ; the  same  in  worsted,  by  a maiden 
aunt. 

If  the  man  of  family  has  an  old  place  to  keep 


i6 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


these  things  in,  furnished  with  claw-footed  chairs 
and  black  mahogany  tables,  and  tall  bevel-edged 
mirrors,  and  stately  upright  cabinets,  his  outfit  is 
complete. 

No,  my  friends,  I go  (always,  other  things  being 
equal)  for  the  man  who  inherits  family  traditions 
and  the  cumulative  humanities  of  at  least  four  or 
five  generations.  Above  all  things,  as  a child,  he 
should  have  tumbled  about  in  a library.  All  men 
are  afraid  of  books,  who  have  not  handled  them 
from  infancy.  Do  you  suppose  our  dear  didascalm 1 
over  there  ever  read  Poll  Synopsis,  or  consulted 
Castelli  Lexicon,  while  he  was  growing  up  to  their 
stature  ? Not  he  ; but  virtue  passed  through  the 
hem  of  their  parchment  and  leather  garments 
whenever  he  touched  them,  as  the  precious  drugs 
sweated  through  the  bat’s  handle  in  the  Arabian 
story.  I tell  you  he  is  at  home  wherever  he  smells 
the  invigorating  fragrance  of  Russia  leather.  No 
self-made  man  feels  so.  One  may,  it  is  true,  have 
all  the  antecedents  I have  spoken  of,  and  yet  be 
a boor  or  a shabby  fellow.  One  may  have  none 
of  them,  and  yet  be  fit  for  councils  and  courts. 
Then  let  them  change  places.  Our  social  arrange- 
ment has  this  great  beauty,  that  its  strata  shift  up 
and  down  as  they  change  specific  gravity,  without 
being  clogged  by  layers  of  prescription.  But  I 
still  insist  on  my  democratic  liberty  of  choice,  and 
I go  for  the  man  with  the  gallery  of  family  por- 
* Note  F. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


27 


traits  against  the  one  with  the  twenty-five-cent 
daguerrotype,  unless  I find  out  that  the  last  is 
the  better  of  the  two. 

1 should  have  felt  more  nervous  about  the 

late  comet,  if  I had  thought  the  world  was  ripe. 
But  it  is  very  green  yet,  if  I am  not  mistaken ; 
and  besides,  there  is  a great  deal  of  coal  to  use  up, 
which  I cannot  bring  myself  to  think  was  made 
for  nothing.  If  certain  things,  which  seem  to  me 
essential  to  a millennium,  had  come  to  pass,  I 
should  have  been  frightened  ; but  they  have  n't. 
Perhaps  you  would  like  to  hear  my 


LATTER-DAY  WARNINGS. 

When  legislators  keep  the  law, 

When  banks  dispense  with  bolts  and  locks, 
When  berries,  whortle-,  rasp-,  and  straw-, 
Grow  bigger  downwards  through  the  box,  — 

When  he  that  selleth  house  or  land 
Shows  leak  in  roof  or  flaw  in  right,  — 

When  haberdashers  choose  the  stand 
Whose  window  hath  the  broadest  light,  — 

When  preachers  tell  us  all  they  think, 

And  party  leaders  all  they  mean,  — 

When  what  we  pay  for,  that  we  drink, 

From  real  grape  and  coffee-bean.  — 

When  lawyers  take  what  they  would  give, 

And  doctors  give  what  they  would  take,  — 
When  city  fathers  eat  to  live, 

Save  when  they  fast  for  conscience’  sake,  — 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


28 


When  one  that  hath  a horse  on  sale 
Shall  bring  his  merit  to  the  proof, 

Without  a lie  for  every  nail 
That  holds  the  iron  on  the  hoof,  — 

When  in  the  usual  place  for  rips 
Our  gloves  are  stitched  with  special  care, 

And  guarded  well  the  whalebone  tips 
Where  first  umbrellas  need  repair,  — 

When  Cuba’s  weeds  have  quite  forgot 
The  power  of  suction  to  resist, 

And  claret-bottles  harbor  not 
Such  dimples  as  would  hold  your  fist,  — 

When  publishers  no  longer  steal, 

And  pay  for  what  they  stole  before,  — 

When  the  first  locomotive’s  wheel 
Rolls  through  the  Hoosac  tunnel’s  bore  5 — > 

Till  then  let  Cumming  blaze  away, 

And  Miller’s  saints  blow  up  the  globe  ; 

But  when  you  see  that  blessed  day, 

Then  order  your  ascension  robe  ! 

The  company  seemed  to  like  the  verses,  and 
I promised  them  to  read  others  occasionally,  if 
they  had  a mind  to  hear  them.  Of  course  they 
would  not  expect  it  every  morning.  Neither 
must  the  reader  suppose  that  all  these  things  I 
have  reported  were  said  at  any  one  breakfast- 
time. I have  not  taken  the  trouble  to  date  them, 
as  Raspail,  p&e,  used  to  date  every  proof  he  seii/ 
to  the  printer  ; but  they  were  scattered  over  sew 
eral  breakfasts ; and  I have  said  a good  many 
1 Note  G. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


29 

more  things  since,  which  I shall  very  possibly 
print  some  time  or  other,  if  I am  urged  to  do  it  by 
judicious  friends. 

I finished  off  with  reading  some  verses  of  my 
friend  the  Professor,  of  whom  you  may  perhap? 
hear  more  by  and  by.  The  Professor  read  them- 
he  told  me,  aL  a farewell  meeting,  where  the 
youngest  orourgr'eat  Historians1  met  a few  of  his 
many  friends  at  their  invitation. 

Yes,  we  knew  we  must  lose  him,  — though  friendship  may 
claim 

To  blend  her  green  leaves  with  the  laurels  of  fame  ; 

Though  fondly,  at  parting,  we  call  him  our  own, 

’1  is  the  whisper  of  love  when  the  bugle  has  blown. 

As  the  rider  that  rests  with  the  spur  on  his  heel,  — 

As  the  guardsman  that  sleeps  in  his  corselet  of  steel,  — 

As  the  archer  that  stands  with  his  shaft  on  the  string, 

He  stoops  from  his  toil  to  the  garland  we  bring. 

What  pictures  yet  slumber  unborn  in  his  loom 
Till  their  warriors  shall  breathe  and  their  beauties  shall 
bloom, 

While  tapestry  lengthehs  the  life-glowing  dyes 
That  caught  from  our  sunsets  the  stain  of  their  skies  ! 

In  the  alcoves  of  death,  in  the  charnels  of  time, 

Where  flit  the  gaunt  spectres  of  passion  and  crime, 

There  are  triumphs  untold,  there  are  martyrs  unsung, 

There  are  heroes  yet  silent  to  speak  with  his  tongue  ! 

Let  us  hear  the  proud  story  which  time  has  bequeathed 
From  lips  that  are  warm  with  the  freedom  they  breathed  ! 

Let  him  summon  its  tyrants,  and  tell  us  their  doom, 

Though  he  sweep  the  black  past  like  Van  Tromp  with  his 
broom  1 

¥ ¥ ¥ * * 


Note  15 


TI1E  AUTOCRAT 


30 

The  dream  flashes  by,  for  the  west- winds  awake 
On  pampas,  on  prairie,  o’er  mountain  and  lake, 

To  bathe  the  swift  bark,  like  a sea-girdled  shrine, 

With  incense  they  stole  from  the  rose  and  the  pine. 

So  fill  a bright  cup  with  the  sunlight  that  gushed 
When  the  dead  summer's  jewels  were  trampled  and  crushed  : 
The  true  Knight  of  Learning,  — the  world  holds  him  dear,  - 
Love  bless  him,  Joy  crown  him,  God  speed  his  career  ! 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


3i 


n. 

REALLY  believe  some  people  save  their 
bright  thoughts,  as  being  too  precious 
for  conversation.  What  do  you  think 
an  admiring  friend  said  the  other  day 
to  one  that  was  talking  good  things,  — good  enough 
to  print?  “Why/’  said  he,  “you  are  wasting 
merchantable  literature,  a cash  article,  at  the  rate, 
as  nearly  as  I can  tell,  of  fifty  dollars  an  hour.” 
The  talker  took  him  to  the  window  and  asked  him 
to  look  out  and  tell  what  he  saw. 

“Nothing  but  a very  dusty  street,”  he  said,  “and 
a man  driving  a sprinkling-machine  through  it.” 

“ Why  don’t  you  tell  the  man  he  is  wasting  that 
water  ? What  would  be  the  state  of  the  highways 
of  life,  if  we  did  not  drive  our  thought-sprinklers 
through  them  with  the  valves  open,  sometimes  ? 

“ Besides,  there  is  another  thing  about  this  talk- 
ing, which  you  forget.  It  shapes  our  thoughts  for 
us  ; — the  waves  of  conversation  roll  them  as  the 
surf  rolls  the  pebbles  on  the  shore.  Let  me  modify 
the  image  a little.  I rough  out  my  thoughts  in 
talk  as  an  artist  models  in  clay.  Spoken  language 
is  so  plastic,  — you  can  pat  and  coax,  and  spread 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


3* 

and  shave,  and  rub  out,  and  fill  up,  and  stick  on 
so  easily,  when  you  work  that  soft  material,  that 
there  is  nothing  like  it  for  modelling.  Out  of  it 
come  the  shapes  which  you  turn  into  marble  or 
bronze  in  your  immortal  books,  if  you  happen  to 
write  such.  Or,  to  use  another  illustration,  writ- 
ing or  printing  is  like  shooting  with  a rifle ; you 
may  hit  your  reader’s  mind,  or  miss  it ; — but  talk- 
ing is  like  playing  at  a mark  with  the  pipe  of  an 
engine;  if  it  is  within  reach,  and  you  have  time 
enough,  you  can’t  help  hitting  it.” 

The  company  agreed  that  this  last  illustration 
was  of  superior  excellence,  or,  in  the  phrase  used 
by  them,  “ Fust-rate.”  I acknowledged  the  compli- 
ment, but  gently  rebuked  the  expression.  “Fust- 
rate,”  “ prime,”  “ a prime  article,”  “ a superior 
piece  of  goods,”  “ a handsome  garment,”  “ a gent 
in  a flowered  vest,”  — all  such  expressions  are  final. 
They  blast  the  lineage  of  him  or  her  who  utters 
them,  for  generations  up  and  down.  There  is  one 
other  phrase  which  will  soon  come  to  be  decisive  of 
a man’s  social  status,  if  it  is  not  already : “ That  tells 
the  whole  story.”  It  is  an  expression  which  vulgar 
and  conceited  people  particularly  affect,  and  which 
well-meaning  ones,  who  know  better,  catch  from 
them.  It  is  intended  to  stop  all  debate,  like  the 
previous  question  in  the  General  Court.  Only  it 
does  n’t ; simply  because  “ that  ” does  not  usually 
tell  the  whole,  nor  one  half  of  the  whole  story. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


33 


It  is  an  odd  idea,  that  almost  all  our  people 

have  had  a professional  education.  To  become  a 
doctor  a man  must  study  some  three  years  and  hear 
a thousand  lectures,  more  or  less.  Just  how  much 
study  it  takes  to  make  a lawyer  I cannot  say,  but 
probably  not  more  than  this.  Now  most  decent 
people  hear  one  hundred  lectures  or  sermons  (dis- 
courses) on  theology  every  year, — and  this,  twenty, 
thirty,  fifty  years  together.  They  read  a great 
many  religious  books  besides.  The  clergy,  how- 
ever, rarely  hear  any  sermons  except  what  they 
preach  themselves.  A dull  preacher  might  be 
conceived,  therefore,  to  lapse  into  a state  of  quasi 
heathenism,  simply  for  want  of  religious  instruc- 
tion. And,  on  the  other  hand,  an  attentive  and 
intelligent  hearer,  listening  to  a succession  of  wise 
teachers,  might  become  actually  better  educated  in 
theology  than  any  one  of  them.  We  are  all  theo- 
logical students,  and  more  of  us  qualified  as  doc- 
tors of  divinity  than  have  received  degrees  at  any 
of  the  universities. 

It  is  not  strange,  therefore,  that  very  good  people 
should  often  find  it  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to 
keep  their  attention  fixed  upon  a sermon  treating 
feebly  a subject  which  they  have  thought  vigorously 
about  for  years,  and  heard  able  men  discuss  scores 
of  times.  I have  often  noticed,  however,  that  a 
hopelessly  dull  discourse  acts  inductively,  as  elec- 
tricians would  say,  in  developing  strong  mental 
3 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


34 

currents.  1 am  ashamed  to  think  with  what  ac- 
companiments and  variations  and  flourishes  1 have 
sometimes  followed  the  droning  of  a heavy  speaker, 
— not  willingly,  — for  my  habit  is  reverential,  — 
but  as  a necessary  result  of  a slight  continuous  im- 
pression on  the  senses  and  the  mind,  which  kept 
both  in  action  without  furnishing  the  food  they  re- 
quired to  work  upon.  If  you  ever  saw  a crow  witli 
a king-bird  after  him,  you  will  get  an  image  of  a 
dull  speaker  and  a lively  listener.  The  bird  in 
sable  plumage  flaps  heavily  along  his  straight- 
forward course,  while  the  other  sails  round  him, 
over  him,  under  him,  leaves  him,  comes  back  again, 
tweaks  out  a black  feather,  shoots  away  once  more, 
never  losing  sight  of  him,  and  finally  reaches  the 
crow’s  perch  at  the  same  time  the  crow  does,  hav- 
ing cut  a perfect  labyrinth  of  loops  and  knots  and 
spirals  while  the  slow  fowl  was  painfully  working 
from  one  end  of  his  straight  line  to  the  other. 

[I  think  these  remarks  were  received  rather  cool- 
ly. A temporary  boarder  from  the  country,  con- 
sisting of  a somewhat  more  than  middle-aged 
female,  with  a parchment  forehead  and  a dry  little 
“frisette  ” shingling  it,  a sallow  neck  with  a neck- 
lace of  gold  beads,  a black  dress  too  rusty  for  re- 
cent grief,  and  contours  in  basso-rilievo,  left  the 
table  prematurely,  and  was  reported  to  have  been 
very  virulent  about  what  I said.  So  I went  to  my 
good  old  minister,  and  repeated  the  remarks,  as 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 


35 

nearly  as  I could  remember  them,  to  him.  He 
laughed  good  naturedly,  and  said  there  was  con- 
siderable truth  in  them.  He  thought  he  could  tell 
when  people’s  minds  were  wandering,  by  their 
looks.  In  the  earlier  years  of  his  ministry  he  had 
sometimes  noticed  this,  when  he  was  preaching ; 
— very  little  of  late  years.  Sometimes,  when  his 
colleague  was  preaching,  he  observed  this  kind  of 
inattention ; but  after  all,  it  was  not  so  very  un- 
natural. I will  say,  by  the  way,  that  it  is  a rule 
I have  long  followed,  to  tell  my  worst  thoughts  to 
my  minister,  and  my  best  thoughts  to-4;he  youmg 
people  I talk  with.] 

1 want  to  make  a literary  confession  now, 

which  I believe  nobody  has  made  before  me.  You 
know  very  well  that  I write  verses  sometimes,  be- 
cause I have  read  some  of  them  at  this  table. 
(The  company  assented,  — two  or  three  of  them 
in  a resigned  sort  of  way,  as  I thought,  as  if  they 
supposed  I had  an  epic  in  my  pocket,  and  were  go- 
ing to  read  half  a dozen  books  or  so  for  their  ben- 
efit.) — I continued.  Of  course  I write  some  lines 
or  passages  which  are  better  than  others ; some 
which,  compared  with  the  others,  might  be  called 
relatively  excellent.  It  i£  in  the  nature  of  things 
that  I should  consider  these  relatively  excellent 
lines  or  passages  as  absolutely  good.  So  much 
must  be  pardoned  to  humanity.  Now  I never 
wrote  a “ good  ” line  in  my  life,  but  the  moment 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


36 

after  it  was  written  it  seemed  a hundred  years  old. 
Very  commonly  I had  a sudden  conviction  that  I 
had  seen  it  somewhere.  Possibly  I may  have 
sometimes  unconsciously  stolen  it,  but  I do  not 
remember  that  I ever  once  detected  any  historical 
truth  in  these  sudden  convictions  of  the  antiquity 
of  my  new  thought  or  phrase.  I have  learned 
utterly  to  distrust  them,  and  never  allow  them  to 
bully  me  out  of  a thought  or  line. 

This  is  the  philosophy  of  it.  (Here  the  number 
of  the  company  was  diminished  by  a small  seces- 
sion.) Any  new  fnr^pnla.  whipK— Qurlrlpnly  f merges 
in  our  consciousness  has  its  roots  in  long  trains^ 
of  thought,;  it  is  virtually  old  when  it  first  makes 
its  appearance  among  the  recognized  growths  of 
our  intellect.  Any  crystalline  group  of  musical 
words  has  had  a long  and  still  period  to  form  in. 
Here  is  one  theory. 

But  there  is  a larger  law  which  perhaps  compre- 
nends  these  facts.  It  is  this.  The  rapidity  with 
which  ideas  grow  old  in  our  memories  is  in  a 
direct  ratio  to  the  squares  of  their  importance. 
Their  apparent  age  runs  up  miraculously,  like  the 
yalue  of  diamonds,  as  they  increase  in  magnitude. 
A great  calamity,  for  instance,  is  as  old  as  the 
trilobites  an  hour  after  it  has  happened.  It  stains 
backward  through  all  the  leaves  we  have  turned 
over  in  the  book  of  life,  before  its  blot  of  tears  or 
of  blood  is  dry  on  the  page  we  are  turning.  For 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


37 

this  we  seem  to  have  lived ; it  was  foreshadowed 
in  dreams  that  we  leaped  out  of  in  the  cold  sweat 
of  terror ; in  the  “ dissolving  views  ” of  dark  day- 
visions  ; all  omens  pointed  to  it ; all  paths  led  to 
it.  After  the  tossing  half-forgetfulness  of  the  first 
sleep  that  follows  such  an  event,  it  comes  upon  us 
afresh,  as  a surprise,  at  waking ; in  a few  moments 
it  is  old  again,  — old  as  eternity. 

[I  wish  I had  not  said  all  this  then  and  there. 
I might  have  known  better.  The  pale  schoolmis- 
tress, in  her  mourning  dress,  was  looking  at  me,  as 
I noticed,  with  a wild  sort  of  expression.  All  at 
once  the  blood  dropped  out  of  her  cheeks  as  the 
mercury  drops  from  a broken  barometer-tube,  and 
she  melted  away  from  her  seat  like  an  image  of 
snow;  a slung-shot  could  not  have  brought  her 
down  better.  God  forgive  me  ! 

After  this  little  episode,  I continued,  to  some 
few  that  remained  balancing  teaspoons  on  the 
edges  of  cups,  twirling  knives,  or  tilting  upon  the 
hind  legs  of  their  chairs  until  their  heads  reached 
the  wall,  where  they  left  gratuitous  advertisements 
of  various  popular  cosmetics.] 

When  a person  is  suddenly  thrust  into  any 
strange,  new  position  of  trial,  he  finds  the  place 
fits  him  as  if  he  had  been  measured  for  it.  He 
has  committed  a great  crime  for  instance,  and  is 
sent  to  the  State  Prison.  The  traditions,  prescrip- 
tions, limitations,  privileges,  all  the  sharp  condi- 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


38 

tions  of  his  new  life,  stamp  themselves  upon  his 
consciousness  as  the  signet  on  soft  wax  ; — a single 
pressure  is  enough.  Let  me  strengthen  the  image 
a little.  Did  you  ever  happen  to  see  that  most 
soft-spoken  and  velvet-handed  steam-engine  at  the 
Mint  ? The  smooth  piston  slides  backward  and 
forward  as  a lady  might  slip  her  delicate  finger  in 
and  out  of  a ring.  The  engine  lays  one  of  its  fin- 
gers calmly,  but  firmly,  upon  a bit  of  metal ; it  is 
a coin  now,  and  will  remember  that  touch,  and 
tell  a new  race  about  it,  when  the  date  upon  it  is 
crusted  over  with  twenty  centuries.  So  it  is  that 
a great  silent-moving  misery  puts  a new  stamp  on 
us  in  an  hour  or  a moment,  — as  sharp  an  impres- 
sion as  if  it  had  taken  half  a lifetime  to  engrave  it. 

It  is  awful  to  be  in  the  hands  of  the  wholesale 
professional  dealers  in  misfortune ; undertakers  and 
jailers  magnetize  you  in  a moment,  and  you  pass 
out  of  the  individual  life  you  were  living  into  the 
rhythmical  movements  of  their  horrible  machinery. 
Do  the  worst  thing  you  can,  or  suffer  the  worst 
that  can  be  thought  of,  you  find  yourself  in  a cat- 
egory of  humanity  that  stretches  back  as  far  as 
Cain,  and  with  an  expert  at  your  elbow  who  has 
studied  your  case  all  out  beforehand,  and  is  wait- 
ing for  you  with  his  implements  of  hemp  or  ma- 
hogany. I believe,  if  a man  were  to  be  burned  in 
any  of  our  cities  to-morrow  for  heresy,  there  would 
be  found  a master  of  ceremonies  that  knew  just 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


39 

how  many  fagots  were  necessary,  and  the  best 
way  of  arranging  the  whole  matter.1 

So  we  have  not  won  the  Goodwood  cup ; 

au  contraire,  we  were  a “ bad  fifth,”  if  not  worse 
than  that;  and  trying  it  again,  and  the  third 
time,  has  not  yet  bettered  the  matter.  Now  I am 
as  patriotic  as  any  of  my  fellow-citizens,  — too 
patriotic  in  fact,  for  I have  got  into  hot  water  by 
loving  too  much  of  my  country ; in  short,  if  any 
man,  whose  fighting  weight  is  not  more  than  eight 
stone  four  pounds,  disputes  it,  I am  ready  to  dis- 
cuss the  point  with  him.  I should  have  gloried 
to  see  the  stars  and  stripes  in  front  at  the  finish. 
I love  my  country,  and  I love  horses.  Stubbs’s 
old  mezzotint  of  Eclipse  hangs  over  my  desk,  and 
Herring’s  portrait  of  Plenipotentiary,  — whom  I 
saw  run  at  Epsom, — over  my  fireplace.  Did  I 
not  elope  from  school  to  see  Revenge,  and  Pros- 
pect, and  Little  John,  and  Peacemaker  run  over 
the  race-course  where  now  yon  suburban  village 
flourishes,  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  ever- 
so-few  3 Though  I never  owned  a horse,  have  I 
not  been  the  proprietor  of  six  equine  females,  of 
which  one  was  the  prettiest  little  “ Morgin  ” that 
ever  stepped  ? Listen,  then,  to  an  opinion  I have 
often  expressed  long  before  this  venture  of  ours  in 
England.  Hors  e-racing  is  not  a republican  insti- 
tution ; horse-trotting  is.  Only  very  rich  persons 
ean  keep  race-horses,  and  everybody  knows  they 
1 Note  T. 


40 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


are  kept  mainly  as  gambling  implements.  At' 
that  matter  about  blood  and  speed  we  won’t  di» 
cuss ; we  understand  all  that ; useful,  very,  — of 
course,  — great  obligations  to  the  Godolphin  “ Ara- 
bian,” and  the  rest.  I say  racing  horses  are  essem 
tially  gambling  implements,  as  much  as  roulette 
tables.  Now  I am  not  preaching  at  this  moment ; 
I may  read  you  one  of  my  sermons  some  other 
morning ; but  I maintain  that  gambling,  on  the 
great  scale,  is  not  republican.  It  belongs  to  two 
phases  of  society,  — a cankered  over-civilization, 
such  as  exists  in  rich  aristocracies,  and  the  reck- 
less life  of  borderers  and  adventurers,  or  the  semi- 
barbarism of  a civilization  resolved  into  its  primi- 
tive elements.  Real  Republicanism  is  stern  and 
severe ; its  essence  is  not  in  forms  of  government, 
but  in  the  omnipotence  of  public  opinion  which 
grows  out  of  it.  This  public  opinion  cannot  pre- 
vent gambling  with  dice  or  stocks,  but  it  can  and 
does  compel  it  to  keep  comparatively  quiet.  But 
hors/vracing  is  the  most  public  way  of  gambling, 
and  with  all  its  immense  attractions  to  the  sense 
and  the  feelings,  — to  which  I plead  very  suscepti- 
ble, — the  disguise  is  too  thin  that  covers  it,  and 
everybody  knows  what  it  means.  Its  supporters 
are  the  Southern  gentry,  — fine  fellows,  no  doubt, 
but  not  republicans  exactty,  as  we  understand  the 
term,  — a few  Northern  millionnaires  more  or  less 
thoroughly  millioned,  who  do  not  represent  the 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE 


4i 


real  people,  and  the  mob  of  sporting  men,  the  best 
of  whom  are  commonly  idlers,  and  the  worst  very 
bad  neighbors  to  have  near  one  in  a crowd,  or  to 
meet  in  a dark  alley.  In  England,  on  the  other 
hand,  with  its  aristocratic  institutions,  racing  is  a 
natural  growth  enough ; the  passion  for  it  spreads 
downwards  through  all  classes,  from  the  Queen  to 
the  costermonger.  London  is  like  a shelled  corn- 
cob on  the  Derby  day,  and  there  is  not  a clerk  who 
could  raise  the  money  to  hire  a saddle  with  an  old 
hack  under  it  that  can  sit  down  on  his  office-stool 
the  next  day  without  wincing. 

Now  just  compare  the  racer  with  the  trotter  for 
a moment.  The  racer  is  incidentally  useful,  but 
essentially  something  to  bet  upon,  as  much  as  the 
thimble-rigger’s  “ little  joker.”  The  trotter  is  es- 
sentially and  daily  useful,  and  only  incidentally 
a tool  for  sporting  men. 

What  better  reason  do  you  w'ant  for  the  fact 
that  the  racer  is  most  cultivated  and  reaches  his 
greatest  perfection  in  England,  and  that  the  trot- 
ting horses  of  America  beat  the  world  ? And  why 
should  we  have  expected  that  the  pick  — if  it  was 
the  pick — of  our  few  and  far-between  racing  sta- 
bles should  beat  the  pick  of  England  and  France  ? 
Throw  over  the  fallacious  time-test,  and  there  was 
nothing  to  show  for  it  but  a natural  kind  of  patri- 
otic feeling,  which  we  all  have,  with  a thoroughly 
provincial  conceit,  which  some  of  us  must  plead 
guilty  to. 


42 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


We  may  beat  yet.1  As  an  American,  I hope  we 
shall.  As  a moralist  and  occasional  sermonizer,  I 
am  not  so  anxious  about  it.  Wherever  the  trot- 
ting horse  goes,  he  carries  in  his  train  brisk  omni- 
buses, lively  bakers'  carts,  and  therefore  hot  rolls, 
the  jolly  butcher's  wagon,  the  cheerful  gig,  the 
wholesome  afternoon  drive  with  wife  and  child,  — 
all  the  forms  of  moral  excellence,  except  truth, 
which  does  not  agree  with  any  kind  of  horse-flesh. 
The  racer  brings  with  him  gambling,  cursing, 
swearing,  drinking,  and  a distaste  for  mob-caps 
and  the  middle-aged  virtues. 

And  by  the  way,  let  me  beg  you  not  to  call  a 
trotting -match  a race , and  not  to  speak  of  a “ thor- 
ough-bred" as  a “blooded”  horse,  unless  he  has 
been  recently  phlebotomized.  I consent  to  your 
saying  “ blood  horse,"  if  you  like.  Also,  if,  next 
year,  we  send  out  Posterior  and  Posterioress,  the 
winners  of  the  great  national  four-mile  race  in 
7 18^,  and  they  happen  to  get  beaten,  pay  your 
bets,  and  behave  like  men  and  gentlemen  about 
it,  if  you  know  how. 

[I  felt  a great  deal  better  after  blowing  off  the 
ill-temper  condensed  in  the  above  paragraph.  To 
brag  little,  — to  show  well,  — to  crow  gently,  if  in 
luck,  — to  pay  up,  to  own  up,  and  to  shut  up,  if 
beaten,  are  the  virtues  of  a sporting  man,  and  I 
can't  say  that  I think  we  have  shown  them  in  any 
great  perfection  of  late.] 

1 Note  J 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


43 


Apropos  of  horses.  Do  you  know  how 

important  good  jockeying  is  to  authors  ? Judi- 
cious management ; letting  the  public  see  your  an- 
imal just  enough,  and  not  too  much  ; holding  him 
up  hard  when  the  market  is  too  full  of  him ; let- 
ting him  out  at  just  the  right  buying  intervals ; 
always  gently  feeling  his  mouth  ; never  slacking 
and  never  jerking  the  rein ; — this  is  what  I mean 
by  jockeying. 

When  an  author  has  a number  of  books 

out,  a cunning  hand  will  keep  them  all  spinning, 
as  Signor  Blitz  does  his  dinner-plates ; fetching 
each  one  up,  as  it  begins  to  “ wabble,”  by  an  ad- 
vertisement, a puff,  or  a quotation. 

Whenever  the  extracts  from  a living  writer 

begin  to  multiply  fast  in  the  papers,  without  obvi- 
ous reason,  there  is  a new  book  or  a new  edition 
coming.  The  extracts  are  ground-bait. 

Literary  life  is  full  of  curious  phenomena. 

I don’t  know  that  there  is  anything  more  notice- 
able than  what  we  may  call  conventional  reputations. 
There  is  a tacit  understanding  in  every  community 
of  men  of  letters  that  they  will  not  disturb  the 
popular  fallacy  respecting  this  or  that  electro-gild- 
ed celebrity.  There  are  various  reasons  for  this 
forbearance  : one  is  old  ; one  is  rich  ; one  is  good- 
natured  ; one  is  such  a favorite  with  the  pit  that  it 
would  not  be  safe  to  hiss  him  from  the  manager’s 
box.  The  venerable  augurs  of  the  literary  or  sci- 


44 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


entific  temple  may  smile  faintly  when  one  of  the 
tribe  is  mentioned ; but  the  farce  is  in  general  kept 
up  as  well  as  the  Chinese  comic  scene  of  entreat' 
ing  and  imploring  a man  to  stay  with  you,  with 
the  implied  compact  between  you  that  he  shall  by 
no  means  think  of  doing  it.  A poor  wretch  he 
must  be  who  would  wantonly  sit  down  on  one  of 
these  bandbox  reputations.  A Prince-Rupert's- 
drop,  which  is  a tear  of  unannealed  glass,  lasts  in- 
definitely, if  you  keep  it  from  meddling  hands; 
but  break  its  tail  off,  and  it  explodes  and  resolves 
itself  into  powder.  These  celebrities  I speak  of 
are  the  Prince-Rupert’s-drops  of  the  learned  and 
polite  world.  See  how  the  papers  treat  them ! 
What  an  array  of  pleasant  kaleidoscopic  phrases, 
which  can  be  arranged  in  ever  so  many  charming 
patterns,  is  at  their  service  ! How  kind  the  “ Crit- 
ical Notices  " — where  small  authorship  comes  to 
pick  up  chips  of  praise,  fragrant,  sugary,  and  sap- 
py— always  are  to  them!  Well,  life  would  be 
nothing  without  paper-credit  and  other  fictions; 
so  let  them  pass  current.  Don't  steal  their  chips ; 
don't  puncture  their  swimming-bladders ; don't 
come  down  on  their  pasteboard  boxes ; don't  break 
the  ends  of  their  brittle  and  unstable  reputations, 
you  fellows  who  all  feel  sure  that  your  names  will 
be  household  words  a thousand  years  from  now. 

“ A thousand  years  is  a good  while,"  said  the 
old  gentleman  who  sits  opposite,  thoughtfully. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


45 

Where  have  I been  for  the  last  three  or 

four  days  ? Down  at  the  Island,1  deer-shooting.  — * 
How  many  did  I bag  ? I brought  home  one  buck 
shot.  — The  Island  is  where  1 No  matter.  It  is 
the  most  splendid  domain  that  any  man  looks  upon 
in  these  latitudes.  Blue  sea  around  it,  and  running 
up  into  its  heart,  so  that  the  little  boat  slumbers 
like  a baby  in  lap,  while  the  tall  ships  are  stripping 
naked  to  fight  the  hurricane  outside,  and  storm- 
stay-sails  banging  and  flying  in  ribbons.  Trees, 
in  stretches  of  miles ; beeches,  oaks,  most  numer- 
ous ; — many  of  them  hung  with  moss,  looking  like 
bearded  Druids ; some  coiled  in  the  clasp  of  huge, 
dark-stemmed  grape-vines.  Open  patches  where 
the  sun  gets  in  and  goes  to  sleep,  and  the  winds 
come  so  finely  sifted  that  they  are  as  soft  as  swan’s 
down.  Rocks  scattered  about,  — Stonehenge-like 
monoliths.  Fresh-water  lakes  ; one  of  them,  Mary’s 
lake,  crystal-clear,  full  of  flashing  pickerel  lying 
under  the  lily-pads  like  tigers  in  the  jungle.  Six 
pounds  of  ditto  killed  one  morning  for  breakfast. 
Ego  fecit. 

The  divinity-student  looked  as  if  he  would  like 
to  question  my  Latin.  No,  sir,  I said,  — you  need 
not  trtmble  yourself.  There  is  a higher  law  in 
grammar,  not  to  be  put  down  by  Andrews  and 
Stoddard.  Then  I went  on. 

Such  hospitality  as  that  island  has  seen  there 
aas  not  been  the  like  of  in  these  our  New  England 
1 Note  K. 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


46 

sovereignties.  There  is  nothing  in  the  shape  of 
kindness  and  courtesy  that  can  make  life  beautiful, 
which  has  not  found  its  home  in  that  ocean-princi- 
pality. It  has  welcomed  all  who  were  worthy  of 
welcome,  from  the  pale  clergyman  who  came  to 
breathe  the  sea-air  with  its  medicinal  salt  a id 
iodine,  to  the  great  statesman  who  turned  his  ba-ck 
on  the  affairs  of  empire,  and  smoothed  his  Olym- 
pian forehead,  and  flashed  his  white  teeth  in  merri- 
ment over  the  long  table,  where  his  wit  was  the 
keenest  and  his  story  the  best. 

[I  don't  believe  any  man  ever  talked  like  that  in 
this  world.  I don't  believe  I talked  just  so  ; but 
the  fact  is,  in  reporting  one's  conversation,  one 
cannot  help  Blair-ing  it  up  more  or  less,  ironing 
out  crumpled  paragraphs,  starching  limp  ones,  and 
crimping  and  plaiting  a little  sometimes ; it  is  as 
natural  as  prinking  at  the  looking-glass.] 

How  can  a man  help  writing  poetry  in  such 

a place  ? Everybody  does  write  poetry  that  goe& 
there.  In  the  state  archives,  kept  in  the  library 
of  the  Lord  of  the  Isle,  are  whole  volumes  of  urn 
published  verse,  — some  by  well-known  hands,  and 
others  quite  as  good,  by  the  last  people  you  would 
think  of  as  versifiers,  — men  who  could  pension  off 
all  the  genuine  poets  in  the  country,  and  buy  ten 
acres  of  Boston  common,  if  it  was  for  sale,  with 
what  they  had  left.  Of  course  I had  to  write  my 
little  copy  of  verses  with  the  rest ; here  it  is,  if  you 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 


47 

will  hear  me  read  it.  When  the  sun  is  in  the  west, 
vessels  sailing  in  an  easterly  direction  look  bright 
Dr  dark  to  one  who  observes  them  from  the  north 
Dr  south,  according  to  the  tack  they  are  sailing 
upon.  Watching  them  from  one  of  the  windows 
Df  the  great  mansion,  I saw  these  perpetual  changes* 
%nd  moralized  thus  : — 


SUN  AND  SHADOW. 

As  I look  from  the  isle,  o’er  its  billoves  of  green, 

To  the  billows  of  foam-crested  blue, 

Yon  bark,  that  afar  in  the  distance  is  seen, 

Half  dreaming,  my  eyes  will  pursue  : 

Now  dark  in  the  shadow,  she  scatters  the  spray 
As  the  chaff  in  the  stroke  of  the  flail  *, 

Now  white  as  the  sea-gull,  she  flies  on  her  way, 

The  sun  gleaming  bright  on  her  sail. 

Yet  her  pilot  is  thinking  of  dangers  to  shun,  — 

Of  breakers  that  whiten  and  roar  *, 

How  little  he  cares,  if  in  shadow  or  sun 
They  see  him  that  gaze  from  the  shore  ! 

He  looks  to  the  beacon  that  looms  from  the  reef, 

To  the  rock  that  is  under  his  lee, 

As  he  drifts  on  the  blast,  like  a wind-wafted  leaf, 

O’er  the  gulfs  of  the  desolate  sea. 

Thus  drifting  afar  to  the  dim-vaulted  caves 
Where  life  and  its  ventures  are  laid, 

The  dreamers  who  gaze  while  we  battle  the  waves 
May  see  us  in  sunshine  or  shade  ; 

Yet  true  to  oar  course,  though  our  shadow  grow  dart. 

We  ’ll  trim  our  broad  sail  as  before, 

And  stand  by  the  rudder  that  governs  the  bark, 

Nor  ask  how  we  look  from  the  shore  ! 


4-8 


TIIE  AUTOCRAT 


Insanity  is  often  the  logic  of  an  accurate 

mind  overtasked.  Good  mental  machinery  ought  to 
break  its  own  wheels  and  levers,  if  anything  is  thrust 
among  them  suddenly  which  tends  to  stop  them  or 
reverse  their  motion.  A weak  mind  does  not  accu- 
mulate force  enough  to  hurt  itself ; stupidity  often 
saves  a man  from  going  mad.  We  frequently  see 
persons  in  insane  hospitals,  sent  there  in  conse- 
quence of  what  are  called  religious  mental  disturb- 
ances. I confess  that  I think  better  of  them  than 
of  many  who  hold  the  same  notions,  and  keep  their 
wits  and  appear  to  enjoy  life  very  well,  outside  of  the 
asylums.  Any  decent  person  ought  to  go  mad,  if 
he  really  holds  such  or  such  opinions.  It  is  very 
much  to  his  discredit  in  every  point  of  view,  if  he 
does  not.  What  is  the  use  of  my  saying  what 
some  of  these  opinions  are?  Perhaps  more  than 
one  of  you  hold  such  as  I should  think  ought  to 
send  you  straight  over  to  Somerville,  if  you  have 
any  logic  in  your  heads  or  any  human  feeling 
in  your  hearts.  Anything  that  is  brutal,  cruel, 
heathenish,  that  makes  life  hopeless  for  the  most 
of  mankind  and  perhaps  for  entire  races,  — any- 
thing that  assumes  the  necessity  of  the  extermina- 
tion of  instincts  which  were  given  to  be  regulated, 
.—  no  matter  by  what  name  you  call  it,  — no  mat- 
ter whether  a fakir,  or  a monk,  or  a deacon  believes 
it,  — if  received,  ought  to  produce  insanity  in  every 
well-regulated  mind.  That  condition  becomes  a 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


49 

normal  one,  under  the  circumstances.  I am  very 
much  ashamed  of  some  people  for  retaining  their 
reason,  when  they  know  perfectly  well  that  if  they 
were  not  the  most  stupid  or  the  most  selfish  of 
human  beings,  they  would  become  non-compotes  at 
once. 

[Nobody  understood  this  hut  the  theological 
student  and  the  schoolmistress.  They  looked  in- 
telligently at  each  other ; but  whether  they  were 
thinking  about  my  paradox  or  not,  I am  not 
clear.  — It  would  be  natural  enough.  Stranger 
things  have  happened.  Love  and  Death  enter 
boarding-houses  without  asking  the  price  of  board, 
or  whether  there  is  room  for  them.  Alas,  these 
young  people  are  poor  and  pallid  ! Love  should 
be  both  rich  and  rosy,  but  must  be  either  rich  or 
rosy.  Talk  about  military  duty  ! What  is  that 
to  the  warfare  of  a married  maid-of-all-work,  with 
the  title  of  mistress,  and  an  American  female  con- 
stitution, which  collapses  just  in  the  middle  third 
of  life,  and  comes  out  vulcanized  India-rubber,  if 
it  happen  to  live  through  the  period  when  health 
and  strength  are  most  wanted  ?] 

Have  I ever  acted  in  private  theatricals  1 

Often.  I have  played  the  part  of  the  “ Poor  Gen- 
tleman,” before  a great  many  audiences,  — more, 
[ trust,  than  I shall  ever  face  again.  I did  not 
wear  a stage-costume,  nor  a wig,  nor  mustaches 
of  burnt  cork  ; but  I was  placarded  and  announced 
4 


TIIE  AUTOCRAT 


5° 

as  a public  performer,  and  at  the  proper  hour  1 
came  forward  with  the  ballet-dancer  s smile  upon 
my  countenance,  and  made  my  bow  and  acted  my 
part.  I have  seen  my  name  stuck  up  in  letters 
so  big  that  I was  ashamed  to  show  myself  in  the 
place  by  daylight.  I have  gone  to  a town  with  a 
sober  literary  essay  in  my  pocket,  and  seen  myself 
everywhere  announced  as  the  most  desperate  of 
buffos,  — one  who  was  obliged  to  restrain  himself 
in  the  full  exercise  of  his  powers,  from  prudential 
considerations.  I have  been  through  as  many 
hardships  as  Ulysses,  in  the  pursuit  of  my  his- 
trionic vocation.  I have  travelled  in  cars  until 
the  conductors  all  knew  me  like  a brother.  I have, 
run  off  the  rails,  and  stuck  all  night  in  snow-drifts, 
and  sat  behind  females  that  would  have  the  win- 
dow open  when  one  could  not  wink  without  his 
eyelids  freezing  together.  Perhaps  I shall  give 
yoa  some  of  my  experiences  one  of  these  days  ; — 
I will  not  now,  for  I have  something  else  for 
you. 

Private  theatricals,  as  I have  figured  in  them 
in  country  lyceum-halls,  are  one  thing,  — and  pri- 
vate theatricals,  as  they  may  be  seen  in  certain 
gilded  and  frescoed  saloons  of  our  metropolis,  are 
another.  Yes,  it  is  pleasant  to  see  real  gentlemen 
and  ladies,  who  do  not  think  it  necessary  to  mouth, 
and  rant,  and  stride,  like  most  of  our  stage  heroes 
and  heroines,  in  the  characters  which  show  off 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


51 

their  graces  and  talents  ; most  of  all  to  see  a fresh, 
unrouged,  unspoiled,  highbred  young  maiden,  with 
a lithe  figure,  and  a pleasant  voice,  acting  in  those 
love-dramas  which  make  us  young  again  to  look 
upon,  when  real  youth  and  beauty  will  play  them 
for  us. 

Of  course  I wrote  the  prologue  I was 

asked  to  write.  I did  not  see  the  play,  though. 
I knew  there  was  a young  lady  in  it,  and  that 
somebody  was  in  love  with  her,  and  she  was  in 
love  with  him,  and  somebody  (an  old  tutor,  I be- 
lieve) wanted  to  interfere,  and,  very  naturally.,  the 
young  lady  was  too  sharp  for  him.  The  play  of 
course  ends  charmingly ; there  is  a general  recon- 
ciliation, and  all  concerned  form  a line  and  take 
each  other's  hands,  as  people  always  do  after  they 
have  made  up  their  quarrels,  — and  then  the  cur- 
tain falls,  — if  it  does  not  stick,  as  it  commonly 
does  at  private  theatrical  exhibitions,  in  which 
case  a boy  is  detailed  to  pull  it  down,  which  he 
does,  blushing  violently. 

Now,  then,  for  my  prologue.  I am  not  going 
to  change  my  caesuras  and  cadences  for  anybody ; 
so  if  you  do  not  like  the  heroic,  or  iambic  trime- 
ter braehy-catalectic,  you  had  better  not  wait  to 
hear  it. 


THIS  IS  IT. 

A Prologue  ? Well,  of  course  the  ladies  know  •,  — 
I have  my  doubts.  No  matter,  — here  we  go  ! 


5* 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


What  is  a Prologue  ? Let  our  Tutor  teach  : 

Pro  means  beforehand  ; logos  stands  for  speech. 

’T  is  like  the  harper’s  prelude  on  the  strings, 

The  prima  donna’s  courtesy  ere  she  sings  ; — 

Prologues  in  metre  are  to  other  pros 
As  worsted  stockings  are  to  engine-hose. 

“ The  world ’s  a stage,”  — as  Shakespeare  said,  one  day  ; 
The  stage  a world  — was  what  he  meant  to  say. 

The  outside  world ’s  a blunder,  that  is  clear  , 

The  real  world  that  Nature  meant  is  here. 

Here  every  foundling  finds  its  lost  mamma  ; 

Each  rogue,  repentant,  melts  his  stern  papa  \ 

Misers  relent,  the  spendthrift’s  debts  are  paid, 

The  cheats  are  taken  in  the  traps  they  laid  ; 

One  after  one  the  troubles  all  are  past 
Till  the  fifth  act  comes  right  side  up  at  last, 

When  the  young  couple,  old  folks,  rogues,  and  all, 

Join  hands,  so  happy  at  the  curtain’s  fall. 

— Here  suffering  virtue  ever  finds  relief, 

And  black-browed  ruffians  always  come  to  grief, 

— When  the  lorn  damsel,  with  a frantic  screech, 

And  cheeks  as  hueless  as  a brandy-peach, 

Cries,  “ Help,  kyind  Heaven  ! ” and  drops  upon  her  knees 
On  the  green — baize,  — beneath  the  (canvas)  trees, — 
See  to  her  side  avenging  Yalor  fly  : — 

“Ha  ! Villain  ! Draw  ! Now,  Terraitorr,  yield  or  die  ! ” 

— When  the  poor  hero  flounders  in  despair, 

Some  dear  lost  uncle  turns  up  millionnaire,  — 

Clasps  the  young  scapegrace  with  paternal  joy, 

Sobs  on  his  neck,  “ My  boy  ! My  boy  ! ! MY  BOY  } ' v 

Ours,  then,  sweet  friends,  the  real  world  to-night. 

Of  love  that  conquers  in  disaster’s  spite. 

Ladies,  attend.  While  woful  cares  and  doubt 
Wrong  the  soft  passion  in  the  world  without, 

Though  fortune  scowl,  though  prudence  interfere, 

One  thing  is  certain  : Love  will  triumph  here  ! 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


Lords  of  creation,  whom  your  ladies  rule,  — 

The  world’s  great  masters,  when  you  ’re  out  of  school,  — 
Learn  the  brief  moral  of  our  evening’s  play  : 

Man  has  his  will,  — but  woman  has  her  way  ! 

While  man’s  dull  spirit  toils  in  smoke  and  fire, 
Woman’s  swift  instinct  threads  the  electric  wire,  — 

The  magic  bracelet  stretched  beneath  the  waves 
Beats  the  black  giant  with  his  score  of  slaves. 

All  earthly  powers  confess  your  sovereign  art 
But  that  one  rebel,  — woman’s  wilful  heart. 

All  foes  you  master  *,  but  a woman’s  wit 

Lets  daylight  through  you  ere  you  know  you  ’re  hit. 

So,  just  to  picture  what  her  art  can  do, 

Hear  an  old  story  made  as  good  as  new. 

Rudolph,  professor  of  the  headsman’s  trade, 

Alike  was  famous  for  his  arm  and  blade. 

One  day  a prisoner  Justice  had  to  kill 
Knelt  at  the  block  to  test  the  artist’s  skill. 

Bare-armed,  swart-visaged,  gaunt,  and  shaggy-browed, 
Rudolph  the  headsman  rose  above  the  crowd. 

His  falchion  lightened  with  a sudden  gleam, 

As  the  pike’s  armor  flashes  in  the  stream. 

He  sheathed  his  blade  ; he  turned  as  if  to  go  ; 

The  victim  knelt,  still  waiting  for  the  blow. 

Why  strikest  not  ? Perform  thy  murderous  act,” 

The  prisoner  said.  (His  voice  was  slightly  cracked.) 

“ Friend,  I have  struck,”  the  artist  straight  replied  ; 

“ Wait  but  one  moment,  and  yourself  decide.” 

He  held  his  snuff-box,  — “ Now  then,  if  you  please  1 ” 
The  prisoner  sniffed,  and,  with  a crashing  sneeze, 

Off  his  head  tumbled,  — bowled  along  the  floor,  — 
Bounced  down  the  steps  *,  — the  prisoner  said  no  more  1 

Woman  ! thy  falchion  is  a glittering  eye  5 
If  death  lurks  in  it,  0 how  sweet  to  die  ! 

Thou  takest  hearts  as  Rudolph  took  the  head  ; 

We  die  with  love,  and  never  dream  we’re  dead  ! 


54 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


The  prologue  went  off  very  well,  as  I hear. 
No  alterations  were  suggested  by  the  lady  to  whom 
it  was  sent,  so  far  as  I know.  Sometimes  people 
criticise  the  poems  one  sends  them,  and  suggest 
all  sorts  of  improvements.1  Who  was  that  silly 
body  that  wanted  Burns  to  alter  “ Scots  wha  hae,,: 
so  as  to  lengthen  the  last  line,  thus  ? — 

“ Edward,  ! ” Chains  and  slavery  ! 

Here  is  a little  poem  I sent  a short  time  since 
to  a committee  for  a certain  celebration.  I under- 
stood that  it  was  to  be  a festive  and  convivial  oc- 
casion, and  ordered  myself  accordingly.  It  seems 
the  president  of  the  day  was  what  is  called  a 
“ teetotaller.”  I received  a note  from  him  in  the 
following  words,  containing  the  copy  subjoined, 
with  the  emendations  annexed  to  it. 

“ Dear  Sir,  — Your  poem  gives  good  satisfac- 
tion to  the  committee.  The  sentiments  expressed 
with  reference  to  liquor  are  not,  however,  those 
generally  entertained  by  this  community.  I have 
therefore  consulted  the  clergyman  of  this  place, 
who  has  made  some  slight  changes,  which  he 
thinks  will  remove  all  objections,  and  keep  the 
valuable  portions  of  the  poem.  Please  to  inform 
me  of  your  charge  for  said  poem.  Our  means 
are  limited,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

“ Yours  with  respect.” 

1 Note  L. 


OF  TEE  BREAKFAST-  TAB  Li 


HERE  IT  IS,  — WITH  THE  SLIGHT  ALTERA 

Come  ! fill  a fresh  bumper,  — for  why  should  we  go 
logwood 

While  the  neoter  still  reddens  our  cups  as  they  flow  i 
decoction 

Pour  out  the  r4eh  juices  still  bright  with  the  sun, 
dye-stuff 

Till  o’er  the  brimmed  crystal  the  rubies  shall  run. 


half-ripened  apples 

The  purple-  globed  clusters  their  life-dews  have  bled  } 
taste  sugar  of  lead 

How  sweet  is  the  breath  of  the  fragraaee  they  -shad  -! 

rank  poisons  wines  ! ! ! • 

For  summer’s  test 


That  were  garnered  by  t 


lie  hid  in  the  wines, 

stable-boys  smoking  long-nines. 


scowl  howl  scoff  sneer 

Then  a smile,  and  a glass,  and  a teaet,  and  a cheer, 
strychnine  and  whiskey,  and  ratsbane  and  beer 

In  cellar,  in  pantry,  in  attic,  in  hall, 

Down,  down,  with  the  tyrant  that  masters  us  all ! 


The  company  said  I had  been  shabbily  treated, 
and  advised  me  to  charge  the  committee  double, 
— which  I did.  But  as  I never  got  my  pay,  I 
don't  know  that  it  made  much  difference.  I am 
a very  particular  person  about  having  all  I write 
printed  as  I write  it.  I require  to  see  a proof,  a 
revise,  a re-revise,  and  a double  re-revise,  or  fourth- 
proof  rectified  impression  of  all  my  productions, 
i Note  M. 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


^ verse.  A misprint  kills  a sensitive 
An  intentional  change  of  his  text  raur- 
i.  No  wonder  so  many  poets  die  young  ! 
ve  nothing  more  to  report  at  this  time,  ex- 
o pieces  of  advice  I gave  to  the  young 
at  table.  One  relates  to  a vulgarism  of 
language,  which  I grieve  to  say  is  sometimes 
heard  even  from  female  lips.  The  other  is  of 
more  serious  purport,  and  applies  to  such  as  con- 
template a change  of  condition,  — matrimony  in 
fact. 

The  woman  who  “ calc’lates  ” is  lost. 

Put  not  your  trust  in  money,  but  put 

your  money  in  trust. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


57 


III. 

HE  “ Atlantic”  obeys  the  moon,  and  its 
Luniversary  has  come  round  again. 
I have  gathered  up  some  hasty  notes 
of  my  remarks  made' since  the  last  high 
tides,  which  I respectfully  submit.  Please  to  re- 
member this  is  talk ; just  as  easy  and  just  as  for- 
mal as  I choose  to  make  it.] 

1 never  ba,.  \n  author  in  my  life  — saving, 

perhaps,  one  — that  did  not  purr  as  audibly  as  a 
full-grown  domestic  cat  [Fells  Catus , Linn.),  on 
having  his  fur  smoothed  in  the  right  way  by  a 
skilful  hand. 

But  let  me  give  you  a caution.  Be  very  careful 
how  you  tell  an  author  he  is  droll.  Ten  to  one  he 
will  hate  you ; and  if  he  does,  be  sure  he  can  do 
you  a mischief,  and  very  probably  will.  Say  you 
cried  over  his  romance  or  his  verses,  and  he  will 
love  you  and  send  you  a copy.  You  can  laugh 
over  that  as  much  as  you  like  — in  private. 

Wonder  why  authors  and  actors  are 

ashamed  of  being  funny?  — Why,  there  are  ob- 
vious reasons,  and  deep  philosophical  ones.  The 
down  knows  very  well  that  the  women  are  not  in 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


5* 

„ove  with  him,  but  with  Hamlet,  the  fellow  in  the 
black  cloak  and  plumed  hat.  Passion  never  laughs. 
The  wit  knows  that  his  place  is  at  the  tail  of  a 
procession. 

If  you  want  the  deep  underlying  reason,  I must 
take  more  time  to  tell  it.  There  is  a perfect  con- 
sciousness in  every  form  of  wit,  — using  that  term 
in  its  general  sense,  — that  its  essence  consists  in  a 
partial  and  incomplete  view  of  whatever  it  touches. 
It  throws  a single  ray,  separated  from  the  rest,  — 
red,  yellow,  blue,  or  any  intermediate  shade,  — 
upon  an  object ; never  white  light ; that  is  the  prov- 
ince of  wisdom.  We  get  beautiful  effects  from  wit, 
— all  the  prismatic  colors,  —but  never  the  object 
as  it  is  in  fair  daylight.  A pun,  which  is  a kind 
of  wit,  is  a different  and  much  shallower  trick  in 
mental  optics  ; throwing  the  shadows  of  two  objects 
so  that  one  overlies  the  other.  Poetry  uses  the 
rainbow  tints  for  special  effects,  but  always  keeps 
its  essential  object  in  the  purest  white  light  of 
truth.  — Will  you  allow  me  to  pursue  this  subject 
a little  further  ? 

[They  did  n’t  allow  me  at  that  time,  for  some- 
body happened  to  scrape  the  floor  with  his  chair 
just  then;  which  accidental  sound,  as  all  must 
have  noticed,  has  the  instantaneous  effect  that  the 
cutting  of  the  yellow  hair  by  Iris  had  upon  infelix 
Dido.  It  broke  the  charm,  and  that  breakfast  was 
over.] 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


59 

Don’t  flatter  yourselves  that  friendship 

authorizes  you  to  say  disagreeable  things  to  your 
intimates.  On  the  contrary,  the  nearer  you  come 
into  a relation  with  a person,  the  more  necessary 
do  tact  and  courtesy  become.  Except  in  cases  of 
necessity,  which  are  rare,  leav^vour  friend  to  learn 
unpleasant  truths  from  his  enemies ; they  are  ready 
enough  to  tell  them.  Good-breeding  never  forgets 
that  amour-propre  is  universal.  When  you  read 
the  story  ef  the  Archbishop  and  Gil  Bias,  you  may 
laugh,  if  you  will,  at  the  poor  old  man’s  delusion ; 
but  don’t  forget  that  the  youth  was  the  greater 
fool  of  the  two,  and  that  his  master  served  such  a 
booby  rightly  in  turning  him  out  of  doors. 

You  need  not  get  up  a rebellion  against 

what  I say,  if  you  find  everything  in  my  sayings 
is  not  exactly  new.  You  can’t  possibly  mistake  a 
man  who  means  to  be  honest  for  a literary  pick- 
pocket. I once  read  an  introductory  lecture  that 
looked  to  me  too  learned  for  its  latitude.  On 
examination,  I found  all  its  erudition  was  taken 
ready-made  from  D’Israeli.  If  I had  been  ill-na- 
tured, I should  have  shown  up  the  little  great  man, 
who  had  once  belabored  me  in  his  feeble  way.  But 
one  can  generally  tell  these  wholesale  thieves  easily 
enough,  and  they  are  not  worth  the  trouble  of  put- 
ting them  in  the  pillory.  I doubt  the  entire  nov- 
elty of  my  remarks  just  made  on  telling  unpleasant 
truths,  yet  I am  not  conscious  of  any  larceny. 


60  THE  AUTOCRAT  • 

Neither  make  too  much  of  flaws  and  occasional 
overstatements.  Some  persons  seem  to  think  that 
absolute  truth,  in  the  form  of  rigidly  stated  propo- 
sitions, is  all  that  conversation  admits.  This  is 
precisely  as  if  a musician  should  insist  on  having 
nothing  but  perfect  fiords  and  simple  melodies, — 
no  diminished  fifths,  no  flat  sevenths,  no  flourishes, 
on  any  account.  Now  it  is  fair  to  say,  that,  just 
as  music  must  have  all  these,  so  conversation  must 
have  its  partial  truths,  its  embellished  truths,  its  ex- 
aggerated truths.  It  is  in  its  higher  forms  an  artis- 
tic product,  and  admits  the  ideal  element  as  much 
as  pictures  or  statues.  One  man  who  is  a little  too 
literal  can  spoil  the  talk  of  a whole  tableful  of  men 
of  esprit.  — “ Yes,”  you  say,  “ but  Who  wants  to 
hear  fanciful  people’s  nonsense  ? Put  the  facts  to 
it,  and  then  see  where  it  is ! ” — Certainly,  if  a man 
is  too  fond  of  paradox,  — if  he  is  flighty  and  empty, 

— if,  instead  of  striking  those  fifths  and  sevenths, 
those  harmonious  discords,  often  so  much  better 
than  the  twinned  octaves,  in  the  music  of  thought, 

— if,  instead  of  striking  these,  he  jangles  the  chords, 
stick  a fact  into  him  like  a stiletto.  But  remem- 
ber that  talking  is  one  of  the  fine  arts,  — the  no- 
blest, the  most  important,  and  the  most  difficult,  — 
and  that  its  fluent  harmonies  may  be  spoiled  by 
the  intrusion  of  a single  harsh  note.  Therefore 
conversation  which  is  suggestive  rather  than  argu- 
mentative, which  lets  out  the  most  of  each  talker’s 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  61 

results  of  thought,  is  commonly  the  pleasantest 
and  the  most  profitable.  It  is  not  easy,  at  the 
best,  for  two  persons  talking  together  to  make 
the  most  of  each  other’s  thoughts,  there  are  so 
many  of  them. 

[The  company  looked  as  if  they  wanted  an 
explanation.] 

When  John  and  Thomas,  for  instance,  are  talk’ 
ing  together,  it  is  natural  enough  that  among  the 
six  there  should  be  more  or  less  confusion  and 
misapprehension. 

{Our  landlady  turned  pale ; — no  doubt  she 
thought  there  was  a screw  loose  in  my  intellects, 
— and  that  involved  the  probable  loss  of  a boarder. 
A severe-looking  person,  who  wears  a Spanish 
cloak  and  a sad  cheek,  fluted  by  the  passions  of  the 
melodrama,  whom  I understand  to  be  the  profes- 
sional ruffian  of  the  neighboring  theatre,  alluded, 
with  a certain  lifting  of  the  brow,  drawing  down 
of  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  and  somewhat  rasping 
voce  di  petto , to  FalstafFs  nine  men  in  buckram. 
Everybody  looked  up.  I believe  the  old  gentle- 
man opposite  was  afraid  I should  seize  the  carving- 
knife  ; at  any  rate,  he  slid  it  to  one  side,  as  it  were 
carelessly.] 

I think,  I said,  I can  make  it  plain  to  Benjamin 
Franklin  here,  that  there  are  at  least  six  personal- 
ities distinctly  to  be  recognized  as  taking  part  in 
that  dialogue  between  John  and  Thomas. 


62 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


f 

Three  Johns.  •< 


( 

Three  Thomases.  { 


1.  The  real  John  •,  known  only  to  his 

Maker. 

2.  John’s  ideal  John  ; never  the  real  one, 

and  often  very  unlike  him. 

3.  Thomas’s  ideal  John  ; never  the  real 

John,  nor  John’s  John,  but  often 
very  unlike  either. 

1.  The  real  Thomas. 

2.  Thomas’s  ideal  Thomas. 

3.  John’s  ideal  Thomas. 


Only  one  of  the  three  Johns  is  taxed ; only  one 
can  be  weighed  on  a platform-balance ; but  the 
other  two  are  just  as  important  in  the  conversa- 
tion. Let  us  suppose  the  real  John  to  be  old,  dull, 
and  ill-looking.  But  as  the  Higher  Powers  have 
not  conferred  on  men  the  gift  of  seeing  themselves 
in  the  true  light,  John  very  possibly  conceives  him- 
self to  be  youthful,  witty,  and  fascinating,  and 
talks  from  the  point  of  view  of  this  ideal.  Thom- 
as, again,  believes  him  to  be  an  artful  rogue,  we 
will  say ; therefore  he  is,  so  far  as  Thomas’s  atti- 
tude in  the  conversation  is  concerned,  an  artful 
rogue,  though  really  simple  and  stupid.  The  same 
conditions  apply  to  the  three  Thomases.  It  fol- 
lows, that,  until  a man  can  be  found  who  knows 
himself  as  his  Maker  knows  him,  or  who  sees  him- 
self as  others  see  him,  there  must  be  at  least  six 
persons  engaged  in  every  dialogue  between  two. 
Of  these,  the  least  important,  philosophically 
speaking,  is  the  one  that  we  have  called  the  real 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  63 

person.  No  wonder  two  disputants  often  get  an- 
gry, when  there  are  six  of  them  talking  and  lis- 
tening all  at  the  same  time. 

[A  very  unphilosophical  application  of  the  above 
remarks  was  made  by  a young  fellow,  answering 
to  the  name  of  John,  who  sits  near  me  at  table. 
A certain  basket  of  peaches,  a rare  vegetable,  little 
known  to  boarding-houses,  was  on  its  way  to  me 
via  this  unlettered  Johannes.  He  appropriated  the 
three  that  remained  in  the  basket,  remarking  that 
there  was  just  one  apiece  for  him.  I convinced  him 
that  his  practical  inference  was  hasty  and  illogical, 
but  in  the  mean  time  he  had  eaten  the  peaches.] 

The  opinions  of  relatives  as  to  a man’s 

powers  are  very  commonly  of  little  value;  not 
merely  because  they  sometimes  overrate  their  own 
flesh  and  blood,  as  some  may  suppose;  on  the 
contrary,  they  are  quite  as  likely  to  underrate  those 
whom  they  have  grown  into  the  habit  of  consider- 
ing like  themselves.  The  advent  of  genius  is  like 
what  florists  style  the  breaking  of  a seedling  tulip 
into  what  we  may  call  high-caste  colors,  — ten 
thousand  dingy  flowers,  then  one  with  the  divine 
streak ; or,  if  you  prefer  it,  like  the  coming  up  in 
old  Jacob’s  garden  of  that  most  gentlemanly  little 
fruit,  the  seckel  pear,  which  I have  sometimes  seen 
in  shop-windows.  It  is  a surprise,  — there  is  noth- 
ing to  account  for  it.  All  at  once  we  find  that 
twice  two  make  Jive.  Nature  is  fond  of  what  are 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


64 

called  “ gift-enterprises.”  This  little  book  of  life 
which  she  has  given  into  the  hands  of  its  joint 
possessors  is  commonly  one  of  the  old  story-books 
bound  over  again.  Only  once  in  a great  while 
there  is  a stately  poem  in  it,  or  its  leaves  are  illu- 
minated with  the  glories  of  art,  or  they  enfold  a 
draft  for  untold  values  signed  by  the  million-fold 
millionnaire  old  mother  herself.  But  strangers  are 
commonly  the  first  to  find  the  “ gift  ” that  came 
with  the  little  book. 

It  may  be  questioned  whether  anything  can  be 
conscious  of  its  own  flavor.  Whether  the  musk- 
deer,  or  the  civet-cat,  or  even  a still  more  eloquent- 
ly silent  animal  that  might  be  mentioned,  is  aware 
of  any  personal  peculiarity,  may  well  be  doubted. 
No  man  knows  his  own  voice ; many  men  do  not 
know  their  own  profiles.  Every  one  remembers 
Carlyle’s  famous  “ Characteristics  ” article ; allow 
for  exaggerations,  and  there  is  a great  deal  in  his 
doctrine  of  the  self-unconsciousness  of  genius. 
It  comes  under  the  great  law  just  stated.  This 
incapacity  of  knowing  its  own  traits  is  often 
found  in  the  family  as  well  as  in  the  individual. 
So  never  mind  what  your  cousins,  brothers,  sisters, 
uncles,  aunts,  and  the  rest  say  about  that  fine  poem 
you  have  written,  but  send  it  (postage-paid)  to  the 
editors,  if  there  are  any,  of  the  “Atlantic,”  — 
which,  by  the  way,  is  not  so  called,  because  it  is  a 
notion,  as  some  dull  wits  wish  they  had  said,  bm 
are  too  late. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  65 

Scientific  knowledge,  even  in  the  most 

modest  persons,  has  mingled  with  it  a something 
which  partakes  of  insolence.  Absolute,  peremp- 
tory facts  are  bullies,  and  those  who  keep  company 
with  them  are  apt  to  get  a bullying  habit  of  mind  ; 
— not  of  manners,  perhaps  ; they  may  be  soft  and 
smooth,  but  the  smile  they  carry  has  a quiet  asser- 
tion in  it,  such  as  the  Champion  of  the  Heavy 
Weights,  commonly  the  best-natured,  but  not  the 
most  diffident  of  men,  wears  upon  what  he  very 
inelegantly  calls  his  “ mug.”  Take  the  man,  for 
instance,  who  deals  in  the  mathematical  sciences. 
There  is  no  elasticity  in  a mathematical  fact ; if 
you  bring  up  against  it,  it  never  yields  a hair’s 
breadth ; everything  must  go  to  pieces  that  comes 
in  collision  with  it.  What  the  mathematician 
knows  being  absolute,  unconditional,  incapable  of 
sufferi  ng  question,  it  should  tend,  in  the  nature  of 
things,  to  breed  a despotic  way  of  thinking.  So 
of  those  who  deal  with  the  palpable  and  often  un- 
mistakable facts  of  external  nature ; only  in  a 
less  degree.  Every  probability  — and  most  of  our 
common,  working  beliefs  are  probabilities  — is  pro- 
vided with  buffers  at  both  ends,  which  break  the 
force  of  opposite  opinions  clashing  against  it ; but 
scientific  certainty  has  no  spring  in  it,  no  courtesy, 
no  possibility  of  yielding.  All  this  must  react  011 
the  minds  which  handle  these  forms  of  truth. 

O,  you  need  not  tell  me  that  Messrs.  A. 

S 


66 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


and  B.  are  the  most  gracious,  unassuming  people 
in  the  world,  and  yet  pre-eminent  in  the  ranges 
of  science  I am  referring  to.  I know  that  as  well 
as  you.  But  mark  this  which  I am  going  to  say 
once  for  all : If  I had  not  force  enough  to  project 
a principle  full  in  the  face  of  the  half-dozen  most 
obvious  facts  which  seem  to  contradict  it,  I would 
think  only  in  single  file  from  this  day  forward. 
A rash  man,  once  visiting  a certain  noted  insti- 
tution at  South  Boston,  ventured  to  express  the 
sentiment,  that  man  is  a rational  being.  An  old 
woman  who  was  an  attendant  in  the  Idiot  School 
contradicted  the  statement,  and  appealed  to  the 
facts  before  the  speaker  to  disprove  it.  The  rash 
man  stuck  to  his  hasty  generalization,  notwith- 
standing. 

[ It  is  my  desire  to  be  useful  to  those  with 

whom  I am  associated  in  my  daily  relations.  1 
not  unfrequently  practise  the  divine  art  of  music 
in  company  with  our  landlady’s  daughter,  who,  as 
I mentioned  before,  is  the  owner  of  an  accordion. 
Having  myself  a well-marked  barytone  voice  of 
more  than  half  an  octave  in  compass,  I sometimes 
add  my  vocal  powers  to  her  execution  of 

“ Thou,  thou  reign’st  in  this  bosom,” 

not,  however,  unless  her  mother  or  some  other 
discreet  female  is  present,  to  prevent  misinterpre- 
tation or  remark.  I have  also  taken  a good  deal 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  67 

of  interest  in  Benjamin  Franklin,  before  referred 
to,  sometimes  called  B.  F.,  or  more  frequently 
Frank,  in  imitation  of  that  felicitous  abbreviation, 
combining  dignity  and  convenience,  adopted  by 
some  of  his  betters.  My  acquaintance  with  the 
French  language  is  very  imperfect,  I having  never 
studied  it  anywhere  but  in  Paris,  which  is  awk- 
ward, as  B.  F.  devotes  himself  to  it  with  the  pecul- 
iar advantage  of  an  Alsacian  teacher.  The  boy, 
I think,  is  doing  well,  between  us,  notwithstand- 
ing. The  following  is  an  uncorrected  French  ex- 
ercise, written  by  this  young  gentleman.  His 
mother  thinks  it  very  creditable  to  his  abilities ; 
though,  being  unacquainted  with  the  French  lan- 
guage, her  judgment  cannot  be  considered  final. 

Le  Rat  des  Salons  A.  Lecture. 

Ce  rat  $i  est  un  animal  fort  singulier.  II  a deux 
pattes  de  derri&re  sur  lesquelles  il  marche,  et  deux 
pattes  de  devant  dont  il  fait  usage  pour  tenir  les  jour- 
naux.  Cet  animal  a la  peau  noire  pour  le  plupart,  et 
porte  un  cercle  blanchatre  autour  de  son  cou.  On  le 
trouve  tous  les  jours  aux  dits  salons,  ou  il  demeure, 
digere,  s’il  y a de  quoi  dans  son  interieur,  respire, 
tousse,  eternue,  dort,  et  ronfle  quelquefois,  ayant  tou- 
jours  le  semblant  de  lire.  On  ne  sait  pas  s’il  a une 
autre  gite  que  pela.  Il  a Pair  d’une  bete  tr&s  stupide, 
mais  il  est  d’une  sagacite  et  d’une  vitesse  extraordi- 
naire quand  il  s’agit  de  saisir  un  journal  nouveau. 
On  ne  sait  pas  pourquoi  il  lit,  parcequ’il  ne  parait  pas 
avoir  des  iddes.  11  vocalise  rarement,  mais  en  re- 


68 


TUE  AUTOCRAT 


vanche,  il  fait  des  bruits  nasaux  divers.  II  porte  un 
crayon  dans  une  de  ses  poches  pectorales,  avec  lequel 
il  fait  des  marques  sur  les  bords  des  journaux  et  des 
livres,  semblable  aux  suivans : ! ! ! — Bah ! Pooh ! Il 
ne  faut  pas  cependant  les  prendre  pour  des  signes 
d ’intelligence.  Il  ne  vole  pas,  ordinairement;  il  fait 
rarement  merae  des  echanges  de  parapluie,  et  jamais 
de  chapeau,  parceque  son  chapeau  a toujours  un 
caractere  specifique.  On  ne  sait  pas  au  juste  ce  dont 
il  se  nourrit.  Feu  Cuvier  4tait  d’avis  que  c’etait  de 
l’odeur  du  cuir  des  reliures;  ce  qu’on  dit  d’etre  une  ' 
nourriture  animate  fort  saine,  et  peu  ch6re.  Il  vit 
bien  longtems.  Enfin  il  meure,  en  laissant  a ses 
h^ritiers  une  carte  du  Salon  a Lecture  ou  il  avait 
exists  pendant  sa  vie.  On  pretend  qu’il  revient 
toutes  les  nuits,  apr&s  la  mort,  visiter  le  Salon.  On 
peut  le  voir,  dit  on,  a minuit,  dans  sa  place  habituelle, 
tenant  le  journal  du  soir,  et  ayant  a sa  main  un 
crayon  de  charbon.  Le  lendemain  on  trouve  des 
caract^res  inconnus  sur  les  bords  du  journal.  Ce  qui 
prouve  que  le  spiritualisme  est  vrai,  et  que  Messieurs 
les  Professeurs  de  Cambridge  sont  des  imbeciles  qui 
ne  savent  rien  du  tout,  du  tout. 

I think  this  exercise,  which  I have  not  cor- 
rected, or  allowed  to  be  touched  in  any  way,  is 
not  discreditable  to  B.  F.  You  observe  that  he  is 
acquiring  a knowledge  of  zoology  at  the  same 
time  that  he  is  learning  French.  Fathers  of  fami- 
lies in  moderate  circumstances  will  find  it  profit- 
able to  their  children,  and  an  economical  mode  of 
instruction,  to  set  them  to  revising  and  amending 
this  boy’s  exercise.  The  passage  was  originally 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 69 

taken  from  the  “ Histoire  Naturelle  des  Betes 
Ruminans  et  Rongeurs,  Bipedes  et  Autres,”  lately 
published  in  Paris.  This  was  translated  into 
English  and  published  in  London.  It  was  re- 
published at  Great  Pedlington,  with  notes  and 
additions  by  the  American  editor.  The  notes 
consist  of  an  interrogation-mark  on  page  53d,  and 
a reference  (p.  127th)  to  another  book  “ edited” 
by  the  same  hand.  The  additions  consist  of  the 
editor’s  name  on  the  title-page  and  back,  with  a 
complete  and  authentic  list  of  said  editor’s  honor- 
ary titles  in  the  first  of  these  localities.  Our  boy 
translated  the  translation  back  into  French.  This 
may  be  compared  with  the  original,  to  be  found 
on  Shelf  13,  Division  X,  of  the  Public  Library 
of  this  metropolis.] 

Some  of  you  boarders  ask  me  from  time 

to  time  why  I don’t  write  a story,  or  a novel,  or 
something  of  that  kind.  Instead  of  answering 
each  one  of  you  separately,  I will  thank  you  to 
step  up  into  the  wholesale  department  for  a few 
moments,  where  I deal  in  answers  by  the  piece 
and  by  the  bale. 

That  every  articulately-speaking  human  being 
has  in  him  stuff  for  one  novel  in  three  volumes 
duodecimo  has  long  been  with  me  a cherished  be- 
lief. It  has  been  maintained,  on  the  other  hand, 
that  many  persons  cannot  write  more  than  one 
novel,  — that  all  after  that  are  likely  to  be  failures. 


7° 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


— Life  is  so  much  more  tremendous  a thing  in  its 
heights  and  depths  than  any  transcript  of  it  can  be, 
that  all  records  of  human  experience  are  as  so 
many  bound  herbaria  to  the  innumerable  glowing, 
glistening,  rustling,  breathing,  fragrance-laden,  poi. 
son-sucking,  life-giving,  death-distilling  leaves  and 
flowers  of  the  forest  and  the  prairies.  All  we  can 
do  with  books  of  human  experience  is  to  make 
them  alive  again  with  something  borrowed  from 
our  own  lives.  We  can  make  a book  alive  for  us 
just  in  proportion  to  its  resemblance  in  essence  or 
in  form  to  our  own  experience.  Now  an  author’s 
first  novel  is  naturally  drawn,  to  a great  extent, 
from  his  personal  experiences ; that  is,  is  a literal 
copy  of  nature  under  various  slight  disguises. 
But  the  moment  the  author  gets  out  of  his  person- 
ality, he  must  have  the  creative  power,  as  well  as 
the  narrative  art  and  the  sentiment,  in  order  to 
tell  a living  story;  and  this  is  rare. 

Besides,  there  is  great  danger  that  a man’s  first 
life-story  shall  clean  him  out,  so  to  speak,  of  his 
best  thoughts.  Most  lives,  though  their  stream 
is  loaded  with  sand  and  turbid  with  alluvial  waste, 
drop  a few  golden  grains  of  wisdom  as  they  flow 
along.  Oftentimes  a single  cradling  gets  them 
all,  and  after  that  the  poor  man’s  labor  is  only 
rewarded  by  mud  and  worn  pebbles.  All  which 
proves  that  I,  as  an  individual  of  the  human  fam- 
ily, could  write  one  novel  or  story  at  any  rate,  if 
I would. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 


7i 


Why  don’t  I,  then  ? — Well,  there  are 

several  reasons  against  it.  In  the  first  place,  I 
should  tell  all  my  secrets,  and  I maintain  that 
verse  is  the  proper  medium  for  such  revelations. 
Rhythm  and  rhyme  and  the  harmonies  of  musical 
language,  the  play  of  fancy,  the  fire  of  imagina- 
tion,  the  flashes  of  passion,  so  hide  the  nakedness 
of  a heart  laid  open,  that  hardly  any  confession, 
transfigured  in  the  luminous  halo  of  poetry,  is 
reproached  as  self-exposure.  A beauty  shows 
herself  under  "the  chandeliers,  protected  by  the 
glitter  of  her  diamonds,  with  such  a broad  snow- 
drift of  white  arms  and  shoulders  laid  bare,  that, 
were  she  unadorned  and  in  plain  calico,  she  would 
be  unendurable,  — in  the  opinion  of  the  ladies. 

Again,  I am  terribly  afraid  I should  show  up 
all  my  friends.  I should  like  to  know  if  all  story- 
tellers do  not  do  this  ? Now  I am  afraid  all  my 
friends  would  not  bear  showing  up  very  well ; for 
they  have  an  average  share  of  the  common  weak- 
ness of  humanity,  which  I am  pretty  certain  would 
come  out.  Of  all  that  have  told  stories  among 
us  there  is  hardly  one  I can  recall  who  has  not 
drawn  too  faithfully  some  living  portrait  that 
might  better  have  been  spared. 

Once  more,  I have  sometimes  thought  it  possi- 
ble I might  be  too  dull  to  write  such  a story  as  1 
should  wish  to  write. 

And  finally,  I think  it  very  likely  I shall  write 


72 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


a story  one  of  these  days.  Don’t  be  surprised  at 
any  time,  if  you  see  me  coming  out  with  “ The 
Schoolmistress,”  or  “ The  Old  Gentleman  Oppo- 
site.” [Our  schoolmistress  and  our  old  gentleman 
that  sits  opposite  had  left  the  table  before  I said 
this.]  I want  my  glory  for  writing  the  same  dis- 
counted now,  on  the  spot,  if  you  please.  I will 
write  when  I get  ready.  How  many  people  live 
on  the  reputation  of  the  reputation  they  might 
have  made ! 

1 saw  you  smiled  when  I spoke  about  the 

possibility  of  my  being  too  dull  to  write  a good 
story.  I don’t  pretend  to  know  what  you  meant 
by  it,  but  I take  occasion  to  make  a remark  which 
may  hereafter  prove  of  value  to  some  among  you. 

— When  one  of  us  who  has  been  led  by  native 
vanity  or  senseless  flattery  to  think  himself  or  her- 
self possessed  of  talent  arrives  at  the  full  and  fina1 
conclusion  that  he  or  she  is  really  dull,  it  is  one 
of  the  most  tranquillizing  and  blessed  convictions 
that  can  enter  a mortal’s  mind.  All  our  failures, 
our  short-comings,  our  strange  disappointments 
in  the  effect  of  our  efforts  are  lifted  from  our 
bruised  shoulders,  and  fall,  like  Christian’s  pack, 
at  the  feet  of  that  Omnipotence  which  has  seen  fit 
to  deny  us  the  pleasant  gift  of  high  intelligence, 

— with  which  one  look  may  overflow  us  in  some 
wider  sphere  of  being. 

How  sweetly  and  honestly  one  said  to  me 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


73 

the  other  day,  “ I hate  books  ! ” A gentleman, 
— singularly  free  from  affectation’s,  — not  learned, 
of  course,  but  of  perfect  breeding,  which  is  often 
so  much  better  than  learning,  — by  no  means 
dull,  in  the  sense  of  knowledge  of  the  world  and 
society,  but  certainly  not  clever  either  in  the  arts 
or  sciences,  — his  company  is  pleasing  to  all  who 
know  him.  I did  not  recognize  in  him  inferiority 
of  literary  taste  half  so  distinctly  as  I did  sim- 
plicity of  character  and  fearless  acknowledgment 
of  his  inaptitude  for  scholarship.  In  fact,  I think 
there  are  a great  many  gentlemen  and  others,  who 
read  wi^0  <*n<v-1ov.t.o  keep  their  place,  that  really 
.ye  whole  course  of  convex  .the  wit  to  firv’on 
how  much  you  can  take  for  granted.  Vulgar 
chess-players  have  to  play  their  game  out ; nothing 
short  of  the  brutality  of  an  actual  checkmate  satis- 
fies their  dull  apprehensions.  But  look  at  two 
masters  of  that  noble  game ! White  stands  well 
enough,  so  far  as  you  can  see  ; but  Red  says, 
Mate  in  six  moves  ; — White  looks,  — nods  ; — 
the  game  is  over.  Just  so  in  talking  with  first- 
rate  men  ; especially  when  they  are  good-natured 
and  expansive,  as  they  are  apt  to  be  at  table. 
That  blessed  clairvoyance  which  sees  into  things 
without  opening  them,  — that  glorious  license, 
which,  having  shut  the  door  and  driven  the  re- 
porter from  its  key-hole,  calls  upon  Truth,  majes- 
tic virgin  ! to  get  off  from  her  pedestal  and  drop 
i Note  N. 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


76 

her  academic  poses,  and  take  a festive  garland  and 
the  vacant  place  on  the  medius  lectus,  — that  car- 
nival-shower of  questions  and  replies  and  com- 
ments, large  axioms  bowled  over  the  mahogany- 
like  bombshells  from  professional  mortars,  and  ex- 
plosive wit  dropping  its  trains  of  many-colored 
fire,  and  the  mischief-making  rain  of  bon-bons 
pelting  everybody  that  shows  himself,  — the  pict- 
ure of  a truly  intellectual  banquet  is  one  which 
the  old  Divinities  might  well  have  attempted  to 
reproduce  in  their 

“ Oh,  oh,  oh ! ” cried  the  young  fellow 

whom  they  call  John,  — “ that  is  from  one  of 
your  lectures  ! ” 

I know  it,  I replied,  — I concede  it,  I confess 
it,  I proclaim  it. 

“ The  trail  of  the  serpent  is  over  them  all ! ” 

All  lecturers,  all  professors,  all  schoolmasters,  have 
ruts  and  grooves  in  their  minds  into  which  their 
conversation  is  perpetually  sliding.  Did  you  never, 
in  riding  through  the  woods  of  a still  June  evening, 
suddenly  feel  that  you  had  passed  into  a warm  stra- 
tum of  air,  and  in  a minute  or  two  strike  the  chill 
layer  of  atmosphere  beyond  ? Did  you  never,  in 
cleaving  the  green  waters  of  the  Back  Bay,  — 
where  the  Provincial  blue-noses  are  in  the  habit 
of  beating  the  “ Metropolitan  ” boat-clubs,  — find 
yourself  in  a tepid  streak,  a narrow,  local  gulf- 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


77 

stream,  a gratuitous  warm-bath  a little  underdone, 
through  which  your  glistening  shoulders  soon 
flashed,  to  bring  you  back  to  the  cold  realities 
of  full-sea  temperature  7 Just  so,  in  talking  with 
any  of  the  characters  above  referred  to,  one  not 
unfrequently  finds  a sudden  change  in  the  style  of 
the  conversation.  The  lack-lustre  eye,  rayless  as 
a Beacon  Street  door-plate  in  August,  all  at  once 
fills  with  light ; the  face  flings  itself  wide  open  like 
the  church-portals  when  the  bride  and  bridegroom 
enter ; the  little  man  grows  in  stature  before  your 
eyes,  like  the  small  prisoner  with  hair  on  end,  be- 
loved yet  dreaded  of  early  childhood;  you  were 
talking  with  a dwarf  and  an  imbecile,  — you  have 
a giant  and  a trumpet-tongued  angel  before  you ! 
Nothing  but  a streak  out  of  a fifty-dollar  lect- 
ure.   As  when,  at  some  unlooked-for  moment, 

the  mighty  fountain-column  springs  into  the  air  be- 
fore the  astonished  passer-by,  — silver-footed,  dia- 
mond-crowned, rainbow-scarfed,  — from  the  bosom 
of  that  fair  sheet,  sacred  to  the  hymns  of  quiet 
batrachians  at  home,  and  the  epigrams  of  a less 
amiable  and  less  elevated  order  of  reptilia  in  other 
latitudes. 

Who  was  that  person  that  was  so  abused 

some  time  since  for  saying  that  in  the  conflict  of 
two  races  our  sympathies  naturally  go  with  the 
higher  ? No  matter  who  he  was.  Now  look  at 
what  is  going  on  in  India,  — a white,  superior 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


78 

“ Caucasian  ” race,  against  a dark-skinned,  inferior, 
but  still  “ Caucasian  ” race,  — and  where  are  Eng- 
lish and  American  sympathies'?  We  can’t  stop 
to  settle  all  the  doubtful  questions ; all  we  know 
is,  that  the  brute  nature  is  sure  to  come  out  most 
strongly  in  the  lower  race,  and  it  is  the  general  law 
that  the  human  side  of  humanity  should  treat  the 
brutal  side  as  it  does  the  same  nature  in  the  inferior 
animals,  — tame  it  or  crush  it.  The  India  mail 
brings  stories  of  women  and  children  outraged  and 
murdered ; the  royal  stronghold  is  in  the  hands  of 
the  babe-killers.  England  takes  down  the  Map  of 
the  World,  which  she  has  girdled  with  empire,  and 
makes  a correction  thus : Delhe  Dele.  The  civ- 
ilized world  says,  Amen. 

Do  not  think,  because  I talk  to  you  of 

many  subjects  briefly,  that  I should  not  find  it 
much  lazier  work  to  take  each  one  of  them  and 
dilute  it  down  to  an  essay.  Borrow  some  of  my 
old  college  themes  and  water  my  remarks  to  suit 
yourselves,  as  the  Homeric  heroes  did  with  their 
melas  oinos,  — that  black,  sweet,  sirupy  wine  (?) 
which  they  used  to  alloy  with  three  parts  or  more 
of  the  flowing  stream.  [Could  it  have  been  melas - 
ses,  as  Webster  and  his  provincials  spell  it,  — or 
Molossa’s,  as  dear  old  smattering,  chattering,  would- 
be- College-President,  Cotton  Mather,  has  it  in  the 
“ Magnalia  ” ? Ponder  thereon,  ye  small  antiqua- 
ries, who  make  barn-door-fowl  flights  of  learning 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


79 

ir  “Notes  and  Queries?  — ye  Historical  Societies, 
ir  one  of  whose  venerable  triremes  I,  too,  ascend 
the  stream  of  time,  while  other  hands  tug  at  the 
oars  ! — ye  Amines  of  parasitical  literature,  who 
pick  up  your  grains  of  native-grown  food  with  a 
bodkin,  having  gorged  upon  less  honest  fare,  until, 
like  the  great  minds  Goethe  speaks  of,  you  have 
“ made  a Golgotha  ” of  your  pages  ! — ponder 
thereon !] 

Before  you  go,  this  morning,  I want  to 

read  you  a copy  of  verses.  You  will  understand 
by  the  title  that  they  are  written  in  an  imaginary 
character.  I don’t  doubt  they  will  fit  some  family- 
man  well  enough.  I send  it  forth  as  “ Oak  Hall  ” 
projects  a coat,  on  a priori  grounds  of  conviction 
that  it  will  suit  somebody.  There  is  no  loftier 
illustration  of  faith  than  this.  It  believes  that  a 
soul  has  been  clad  in  flesh ; that  tender  parents 
have  fed  and  nurtured  it ; that  its  mysterious  corn- 
pages  or  framework  has  survived  its  myriad  expos- 
ures and  reached  the  stature  of  maturity;  that  the 
Man,  now  self-determining,  has  given  in  his  adhe- 
sion to  the  traditions  and  habits  of  the  race  in  favor 
of  artificial  clothing ; that  he  will,  having  all  the 
vorld  to  choose  from,  select  the  very  locality  where 
this  audacious  generalization  has  been  acted  upon. 
It  builds  a garment  cut  to  the  pattern  of  an  Idea, 
and  trusts  that  Nature  will  model  a material  shapf 
to  fit  it.  There  is  a prophecy  in  every  seam,  and 


80  THE  AUTOCRAT 

its  pockets  are  full  of  inspiration.  — Now  hear 
verses. 


THE  OLD  MAN  DREAMS. 

0 for  one  hour  of  youthful  joy  ! 

Give  back  my  twentieth  spring  ! 

I’d  rather  laugh  a bright-haired  boy 
Than  reign  a gray-beard  king  ! 

Off  with  the  wrinkled  spoils  of  age  ! 

Away  with  learning’s  crown  ! 

Tear  out  life’s  wisdom-written  page, 
And  dash  its  trophies  down  ! 

One  moment  let  my  life-blood  stream 
From  boyhood’s  fount  of  flame  ! 

Give  me  one  giddy,  reeling  dream 
Of  life  all  love  and  fame  ! 

— My  listening  angel  heard  the  prayer, 
And  calmly  smiling,  said, 

“ If  I but  touch  thy  silvered  hair, 

Thy  hasty  wish  hath  sped. 

“ But  is  there  nothing  in  thy  track 
To  bid  thee  fondly  stay, 

While  the  swift  seasons  hurry  back 
To  find  the  wished-for  day  ? ” 

— Ah,  truest  soul  of  womankind  ! 
Without  thee,  what  were  life  ? 

One  bliss  I cannot  leave  behind  : 

I ’ll  take  — my  — precious  — wife  ! 

— The  angel  took  a sapphire  pen 
And  wrote  in  rainbow  dew, 

41  The  man  would  be  a boy  again, 

And  be  a husband  too  ! ” 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 81 

— “ And  is  there  nothing  yet  unsaid 
Before  the  change  appears  ? 

Remember,  all  their  gifts  have  fled 
With  those  dissolving  years  ! ” 

Why,  yes  $ for  memory  would  recall 
My  fond  paternal  joys  *, 

I could  not  bear  to  leave  them  all ; 

I ’ll  take  — my  — girl  — and  — boys  ! 

The  smiling  angel  dropped  his  pen,  — 

“ Why  this  will  never  do  } 

The  man  would  be  a boy  again, 

And  be  a father  too  ! ” 

And  so  I laughed,  — my  laughter  woke 
The  household  with  its  noise,  — 

And  wrote  my  dream,  when  morning  broke, 

To  please  the  gray-haired  boys. 


82 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


XY. 

AM  so  well  pleased  with  my  boarding- 
house that  I intend  to  remain  there, 
perhaps  for  years.  Of  course  I shall 
have  a great  many  conversations  to  re- 
port, and  they  will  necessarily  be  of  different  tone 
and  on  different  subjects.  The  talks  are  like  the 
breakfasts,  — sometimes  dipped  toast,  and  some- 
times diy.  You  must  take  them  as  they  come. 
How  can  I do  what  all  these  letters  ask  me  to  ? 1 
No.  1.  wants  serious  and  earnest  thought.  No.  2. 
(letter  smells  of  bad  cigars)  must  have  more  jokes ; 
wants  me  to  tell  a “ good  storey  ” which  he  has 
copied  out  for  me.  (I  suppose  two  letters  before 
the  word  “ good  ” refer  to  some  Doctor  of  Divinity 
who  told  the  story.)  No.  3.  (in  female  hand)  — 
more  poetry.  No.  4.  wants  something  that  would 
be  of  use  to  a practical  man.  ( Prahctical  malm 
he  probably  pronounces  it.)  No.  5.  (gilt-edged, 
sweet-scented)  — “ more  sentiment,”  — “ heart’s 
outpourings.” 

My  dear  friends,  one  and  all,  I can  do  nothing 
but  report  such  remarks  as  I happen  to  have  made 
at  our  breakfast-table.  Their  character  will  depend 
1 Note  0. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 83 

on  many  accidents,  — a good  deal  on  the  particu- 
lar persons  in  the  company  to  whom  they  were 
addressed.  It  so  happens  that  those  which  follow 
were  mainly  intended  for  the  divinity-student  and 
the  school-mistress;  though  others,  whom  I need, 
not  mention,  saw  fit  to  interfere,  with  more  or  less 
propriety,  in  the  conversation.  This  is  one  of  mv 
privileges  as  a talker;  and  of  course,  when  I was 
not  talking  for  our  whole  company,  I don’t  expect 
all  the  readers  of  this  periodical  to  be  interested  in 
my  notes  of  what  was  said.  Still,  I think  there 
may  be  a few  that  will  rather  like  this  vein,  — • 
possibly  prefer  it  to  a livelier  one,  — serious  young 
men  and  young  women  generally,  in  life’s  roseate 
parenthesis  from  years  of  age  to  in- 

clusive. 

Another  privilege  of  talking  is  to  misquote.  — 
Of  course  it  was  n’t  Proserpina  that  actually  cut 
the  yellow  hair,  — but  Iris.  (As  I have  since  told 
you)  it  was  the  former  lady’s  regular  business,  but 
Dido  had  used  herself  ungenteelly,  and  Madame 
d’Enfer  stood  firm  on  the  point  of  etiquette.  So 
the  bathycolpian  Here  — Juno,  in  Latin  — sent 
down  Iris  instead.  But  I was  mightily  pleased  to 
see  that  one  of  the  gentlemen  that  do  the  heavy 
articles  for  the  celebrated  “ Oceanic  Miscellany  ” 
misquoted  Campbell’s  line  without  any  excuse. 
“ Waft  us  home  the  message  ” of  course  it  ought  to 
be.  Will  he  be  duly  grateful  for  the  correction  ? j 


84 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


The  more  we  study  the  body  and  the  mind, 

the  more  we  find  both  to  be  governed,  not  by,  but 
according  to  laws,  such  as  we  observe  in  the  larger 
universe.  — You  think  you  know  all  about  walking , 

— don’t  you,  now?  Well,  how  do  you  suppose 
your  lower  limbs  are  held  to  your  body  ? They 
are  sucked  up  by  two  cupping  vessels,  (“  cotyloid  ” 

— cup-like — cavities,)  and  held  there  as  long  as 
you  live,  and  longer.  At  any  rate,  you  think  you 
move  them  backward  and  forward  at  such  a rate 
as  your  will  determines,  don’t  you  ? On  the  con- 
trary, they  swing  just  as  any  other  pendulums 
swing,  at  a fixed  rate,  determined  by  their  length. 
You  can  alter  this  by  muscular  power,  as  you  can 
take  bold  of  the  pendulum  of  a clock  and  make  it 
move  faster  or  slower ; but  your  ordinary  gait  is 
timed  by  the  same  mechanism  as  the  movements 
of  the  solar  system. 

[My  friend,  the  Professor,  told  me  all  this,  refer- 
ring me  to  certain  German  physiologists  by  the 
name  of  Weber  for  proof  of  the  facts,  which,  how- 
ever, he  said  he  had  often  verified.  I appropriated 
it  to  my  own  use ; what  can  one  do  better  than 
this,  when  one  has  a friend  that  tells  him  anything 
worth  remembering  ? 

The  Professor  seems  to  think  that  man  and  the 
general  powers  of  the  universe  are  in  partnership. 
Some  one  was  saying  that  it  had  cost  nearly  half  a 
million  to  move  the  Leviathan1  only  so  far  as  they 
i Note  P. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  85 

had  got  it  already.  — Why,  said  the  Professor,  — 
they  might  have  hired  an  earthquake  for  less 
money ! ] 

Just  as  we  find  a mathematical  rule  at  the  bot- 
tom of  many  of  the  bodily  movements,  just  so 
thought  may  be  supposed  to  have  its  regular  cy- 
cles. Such  or  such  a thought  comes  round  peri- 
odically, in  its  turn.  Accidental  suggestions,  how- 
ever, so  far  interfere  with  the  regular  cycles,  that 
we  may  find  them  practically  beyond  our  power 
of  recognition.  Take  all  this  for  what  it  is  worth, 
but  at  any  rate  you  will  agree  that  there  are  cer- 
tain particular  thoughts  that  do  not  come  up  once 
a day,  nor  once  a week,  but  that  a year  would 
hardly  go  round  without  your  having  them  pass 
through  your  mind.  Here  is  one  which  comes  up 
at  intervals  in  this  way.  Some  one  speaks  of  it, 
and  there  is  an  instant  and  eager  smile  of  assent 
in  the  listener  or  listeners.  Yes,  indeed ; they 
have  often  been  struck  by  it. 

All  at  once  a conviction  flashes  through  us  that  we 
have  been  in  the  same  precise  circumstances  as  at  the 
vresent  instant , once  or  many  times  before. 

O dear,  yes  ! — said  one  of  the  company,  — 
everybody  has  had  that  feeding. 

The  landlady  did  n't  know  anything  about  such 
nc  tions  ; it  was  an  idee  in  folks'  heads,  she  expected. 

The  schoolmistress  said,  in  a hesitating  sort  of 
way,  that  she  knew  the  feeling  well,  and  did  n’t  like 


86  THE  AUTOCRAT 

to  experience  it ; it  made  her  think  she  was  a ghost, 
sometimes. 

The  young  fellow  whom  they  call  John  said  he 
knew  all  about  it;  he  had  just  lighted  a cheroot 
the  other  day,  when  a tremendous  conviction  all  at 
once  came  over  him  that  he  had  done  just  that 
same  thing  ever  so  many  times  before.  I looked 
severely  at  him,  and  his  countenance  immediately 
fell  — on  the  side  toward  me;  I cannot  answer  for 
the  other,  for  he  can  wink  and  laugh  with  either 
half  of  his  face  without  the  other  half's  knowing  it. 

1 have  noticed  — I went  on  to  say  — the 

following  circumstances  connected  with  these  sud- 
den impressions.  First,  that  the  condition  which 
seems  to  be  the  duplicate  of  a former  one  is  often 
very  trivial,  — one  that  might  have  presented  itself 
a hundred  times.  Secondly,  that  the  impression  is 
very  evanescent,  and  that  it  is  rarely,  if  ever,  re- 
called by  any  voluntary  effort,  at  least  after  any 
time  has  elapsed.  Thirdly,  that  there  is  a disincli- 
nation to  record  the  circumstances,  and  a sense  of 
incapacity  to  reproduce  the  state  of  mind  in  words- 
Fourthly,  I have  often  felt  that  the  duplicate  condi- 
tion had  not  only  occurred  once  before,  but  that  it 
was  familiar  and,  as  it  seemed,  habitual.  Lastly, 
I have  had  the  same  convictions  in  my  dreams. 

How  do  I account  for  it  ? — Why,  there  are  sev- 
eral ways  that  I can  mention,  and  you  may  take 
your  choice.  The  first  is  that  which  the  young 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  8? 

lady  hinted  at ; — that  these  flashes  are  sudden  rec- 
ollections of  a previous  existence.  I don’t  believe 
that ; for  I remember  a poor  student  I used  to  know 
told  me  he  had  such  a conviction  one  day  when  he 
was  blacking  his  boots,  and  I can’t  think  he  had 
ever  lived  in  another  world  where  they  use  Day 
and  Martin. 

Some  think  that  Dr.  Wigan’s  doctrine  of  the 
brain’s  being  a double  organ,  its  hemispheres  work- 
ing together  like  the  two  eyes,  accounts  for  it.  One 
of  the  hemispheres  hangs  fire,  they  suppose,  and 
the  small  interval  between  the  perceptions  of  the 
nimble  and  the  sluggish  half  seems  an  indefinitely 
long  period,  and  therefore  the  second  perception 
appears  to  be  the  copy  of  another,  ever  so  old.  But 
even  allowing  the  centre  of  perception  to  be  double, 
I can  see  no  good  reason  for  supposing  this  indefi- 
nite lengthening  of  the  time,  nor  any  analogy  that 
bears  it  out.  It  seems  to  me  most  likely  that  the 
coincidence  of  circumstances  is  very  partial,  but 
that  we  take  this  partial  resemblance  for  identity, 
as  we  occasionally  do  resemblances  of  persons.  A 
momentary  posture  of  circumstances  is  so  far  like 
some  preceding  one  that  we  accept  it  as  exactly  the 
same,  just  as  we  accost  a stranger  occasionally, 
mistaking  him  for  a friend.  The  apparent  similar- 
ity may  be  owing  perhaps,  quite  as  much  to  the 
mental  state  at  the  time,  as  to  the  outward  circum- 
stances. 


83 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


Here  is  another  of  these  curiously  recur- 
ring remarks.  1 have  said  it,  and  heard  it  many 
times,  and  occasionally  met  with  something  like  it 
in  books,  — somewhere  in  Bulwer’s  novels,  I think, 
and  in  one  of  the  works  of  Mr.  Olmsted,  I know. 

Memory , imagination,  old  sentiments  and  associations , 
are  more  readily  reached  through  the  sense  of  smell 
than  hy  almost  any  other  channel. 

Of  course  the  particular  odors  which  act  upon 
each  person’s  susceptibilities  differ. — O yes!  I 
will  tell  you  some  of  mine.  The  smell  of  phos- 
phorus is  one  of  them.  During  a year  or  two  of 
adolescence  I used  to  be  dabbling  in  chemistry  a 
good  deal,  and  as  about  that  time  I had  my  little 
aspirations  and  passions  like  another,  some  of  these 
things  got  mixed  up  with  each  other:  orange-col- 
ored fumes  of  nitrous  acid,  and  visions  as  bright 
and  transient;  reddening  litmus-paper,  and  blush- 
ing checks  ; — eheu  ! 

il  Soles  occidere  et  redire  possunt,” 

but  there  is  no  reagent  that  will  redden  the  faded 

roses  of  eighteen  hundred  and spare  them ! 

But,  as  I was  saying,  phosphorus  fires  this  train 
of  associations  in  an  instant ; its  luminous  vapors 
with  their  penetrating  odor  throw  me  into  a trance ; 
it  comes  to  me  in  a double  sense  “ trailing  clouds  of 
glory.”  Only  the  confounded  Vienna  matches,  ohne 
phosphor -geruch,  have  worn  my  sensibilities  a little. 


OF  THE  BREAK  FA  S T-  TABLE.  S9 

Then  there  is  the  marigold.  When  I was  of 
smallest  dimensions,  and  wont  to  ride  impacted 
between  the  knees  of  fond  parental  pair,  we  would 
sometimes  cross  the  bridge  to  the  next  village-town 
and  stop  opposite  a low,  brown,  “ gambrel-roofed ,r 
cottage.  Out  of  it  would  come  one  Sally,  sister  of 
its  swarthy  tenant,  swarthy  herself,  shady-lipped, 
sad-voiced,  and,  bending  over  her  flower-bed,  would 
gather  a “ posy,”  as  she  called  it,  for  the  little  boy. 
Sally  lies  in  the  churchyard  with  a slab  of  blue 
slate  at  her  head,  lichen-crusted,  and  leaning  a little 
within  the  last  few  years.  Cottage,  garden-beds, 
posies,  grenadier-like  rows  of  seedling  onions, — 
stateliest  of  vegetables,  — all  are  gone,  but  the 
breath  of  a marigold  brings  them  all  back  to  me. 

Perhaps  the  herb  everlasting , the  fragrant  immor- 
telle of  our  autumn  fields,  has  the  most  suggestive 
odor  to  me  of  all  those  that  set  me  dreaming.  I 
can  hardly  describe  the  strange  thoughts  and  emo- 
tions that  come  to  me  as  I inhale  the  aroma  of  its 
pale,  dry,  rustling  flowers.  A something  it  has 
of  sepulchral  spicery,  as  if  it  had  been  brought 
from  the  core  of  some  great  pyramid,  where  it 
had  lain  on  the  breast  of  a mummied  Pharaoh. 
Something,  too,  of  immortality  in  the  sad,  faint 
sweetness  lingering  so  long  in  its  lifeless  petals. 
Yet  this  does  not  tell  why  it  fills  my  eyes  with 
tears  and  carries  me  in  blissful  thought  to  the 
banks  of  asphodel  that  border  the  River  of  Life. 


9o  THE  AUTOCRAT 

1 should  not  have  talked  so  much  about 

these  personal  susceptibilities,  if  I had  not  a re- 
mark to  make  about  them  which  I believe  is  a new 
one.  It  is  this.  There  may  be  a physical  reason 
for  the  strange  connection  between  the  sense  of 
smell  and  the  mind.  The  olfactory  nerve  — so 
my  friend,  the  Professor,  tells  me  — is  the  only 
one  diiectly  connected  with  the  hemispheres  of  the 
brain,  the  parts  in  which,  as  we  have  every  reason 
to  believe,  the  intellectual  processes  are  performed. 
To  speak  more  truly,  the  olfactory  “ nerve  ” is  not 
a nerve  at  all,  he  says,  but  a part  of  the  brain, 
in  intimate  connection  with  its  anterior  lobes. 
Whether  this  anatomical  arrangement  is  at  the 
bottom  of  the  facts  I have  mentioned,  I will  not 
decide,  but  it  is  curious  enough  to  be  worth  re- 
membering. Contrast  the  sense  of  taste,  as  a source 
of  suggestive  impressions,  with  that  of  smell.  Now 
the  Professor  assures  me  that  you  will  find  the 
nerve  of  taste  has  no  immediate  connection  with 
the  brain  proper,  but  only  with  the  prolongation 
of  the  spinal  cord. 

[The  old  gentleman  opposite  did  not  pay  much 
attention,  I think,  to  this  hypothesis  of  mine.  But 
while  I was  speaking  about  the  sense  of  smell  he 
nestled  about  in  his  seat,  and  presently  succeeded 
in  getting  out  a large  red  bandanna  handkerchief. 
Then  he  lurched  a little  to  the  other  side,  and  after 
much  tribulation  at  last  extricated  an  ample  round 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


9> 

snuffbox.  I looked  as  he  opened  it  and  felt  for  the 
wonted  pugil.  Moist  rappee,  and  a Tonka-bean 
lying  therein.  I made  the  manual  sign  understood 
of  all  mankind  that  use  the  precious  dust,  and  pres- 
ently my  brain,  too,  responded  to  the  long  unused 

stimulus. 0 boys,  — that  were, — actual  papas 

and  possible  grandpapas,  — some  of  you  with 
crowns  like  billiard-balls,  — some  in  locks  of  sa- 
ble silvered,  and  some  of  silver  sabled,  — do  you 
remember,  as  you  doze  over  this,  those  after-dinners 
at  the  Trois  Freres,  when  the  Scotch-plaided  snuff- 
box went  round,  and  the  dry  Lundy-Foot  tickled 
its  way  along  into  our  happy  sensoria  ? Then  it 
was  that  the  Chambertin  or  the  Clos  Yougeot  came 
in,  slumbering  in  its  straw  cradle.  And  one  among 
you,  — do  you  remember  how  he  would  have  a bit 
of  ice  always  in  his  Burgundy,  and  sit  tinkling  it 
against  the  sides  of  the  bubble-like  glass,  saying 
that  he  was  hearing  the  cow-bells  as  he  used  to 
hear  them,  when  the  deep-breathing  kine  came 
home  at  twilight  from  the  huckleberry  pasture, 
in  the  old  home  a thousand  leagues  towards  the 
sunset  ?] 

Ah  me ! what  strains  and  strophes  of  unwritten 
verse  pulsate  through  my  soul  when  I open  a cer- 
tain closet  in  the  ancient  house  where  I was  born  1 
On  its  shelves  used  to  lie  bundles  of  sweet-mar- 
joram and  pennyroyal  and  lavender  and  mint  and 
catnip ; there  apples  were  stored  until  their  seeds 


92 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


should  grow  black,  which  happy  period  there  were 
sharp  little  milk-teeth  always  ready  to  anticipate ; 
there  peaches  lay  in  the  dark,  thinking  of  the  sun- 
shine they  had  lost,  until,  like  the  hearts  of  saints 
that  dream  of  heaven  in  their  sorrow,  they  grew 
fragrant  as  the  breath  of  angels.  The  odorous 
echo  of  a score  of  dead  summers  lingers  yet  in 
those  dim  recesses. 

Do  I remember  Byron’s  line  about  “ strik- 
ing the  electric  chain  ” ? — To  be  sure  I do.  I 
sometimes  think  the  less  the  hint  that  stirs  the 
automatic  machinery  of  association,  the  more  easily 
this  moves  us.  What  can  be  more  trivial  than  that 
old  story  of  opening  the  folio  Shakespeare  that 
used  to  lie  in  some  ancient  English  hall  and  find- 
ing the  flakes  of  Christmas  pastry  between  its 
leaves,  shut  up  in  them  perhaps  a hundred  years 
ago  ? And,  lo  ! as  one  looks  on  these  poor  relics 
of  a bygone  generation,  the  universe  changes  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye ; old  George  the  Second  is  back 
again,  and  the  elder  Pitt  is  coming  into  power,  and 
General  Wolfe  is  a fine,  promising  young  man,  and 
over  the  Channel  they  are  pulling  the  Sieur  Da- 
miens to  pieces  with  wild  horses,  and  across  the 
Atlantic  the  Indians  are  tomahawking  Hirams  and 
Jonathans  and  Jonases  at  Fort  William  Henry ; all 
the  dead  people  who  have  been  in  the  dust  so  long 
‘ — even  to  the  stout-armed  cook  that  made  the  pas' 
try  — are  alive  again ; the  planet  unwinds  a hum 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 


93 

dred  of  its  luminous  coils,  and  the  precession  of 
the  equinoxes  is  retraced  on  the  dial  of  heaven ! 
And  all  this  for  a bit  of  pie-crust ! 

1 will  thank  you  for  that  pie,  — said  the 

provoking  young  fellow  whom  I have  named  re- 
peatedly. He  looked  at  it  for  a moment,  and  put 
his  hands  to  his  eyes  as  if  moved.  — I was  think- 
ing, — he  said  indistinctly 

How  7 What  is ’t 7 — said  our  landlady. 

1 was  thinking,  — said  he,  — who  was  king 

of  England  when  this  old  pie  was  baked,  — and  it 
made  me  feel  bad  to  think  how  long  he  must  have 
been  dead. 

[Our  landlady  is  a decent  body,  poor,  and  a 
widow,  of  course ; cela  va  sans  dire.  She  told  me 
her  story  once ; it  was  as  if  a grain  of  corn  that  had 
been  ground  and  bolted  had  tried  to  individualize 
itself  by  a special  narrative.  There  was  the  woo- 
ing and  the  wedding,  — the  start  in  life,  — the  dis- 
appointment, — the  children  she  had  buried,  — the 
struggle  against  fate,  — the  dismantling  of  life,  first 
of  its  small  luxuries,  and  then  of  its  comforts,  — » 
the  broken  spirits,  — the  altered  character  of  the 
one  on  whom  she  leaned,  — and  at  last  the  death 
that  came  and  drew  the  black  curtain  between  her 
and  all  her  earthly  hopes. 

I never  laughed  at  my  landlady  after  she  had 
told  me  her  story,  but  I often  cried,  — not  those 
pattering  tears  that  run  off  the  eaves  upon  our 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


94 

neighbors’  grounds,  the  stillicidium  of  self-con- 
scious sentiment,  but  those  which  steal  noiselessly 
through  their  conduits  until  they  reach  the  cis- 
terns lying  round  about  the  heart;  those  tears 
that  we  weep  inwardly  with  unchanging  features ; 
— such  I did  shed  for  her  often  when  the  imps  of 
the  boarding-house  Inferno  tugged  at  her  soul  with 
their  red-hot  pincers.] 

Young  man,  — I said,  — the  pasty  you  speak 
lightly  of  is  not  old,  but  courtesy  to  those  who 
labor  to  serve  us,  especially  if  they  are  of  the 
weaker  sex,  is  very  old,  and  yet  well  worth  re- 
taining. May  I recommend  to  you  the  following 
caution,  as  a guide,  whenever  you  are  dealing 
with  a woman,  or  an  artist,  or  a poet,  — if  you  are 
handling  an  editor  or  politician,  it  is  superfluous 
advice.  I take  it  from  the  back  of  one  of  those 
little  French  toys  which  contain  pasteboard  fig- 
ures moved  by  a small  running  stream  of  fine 
sand ; Benjamin  Franklin  will  translate  it  for 
you  : “ Quoiqu’elle  soit  tres  solidement  montee,  il  faut 
ne  pas  brutaliser  la  machine  ” — I will  thank 
you  for  the  pie,  if  you  please. 

[I  took  more  of  it  than  was  good  for  me,  — as 
much  as  85°,  I should  think,  — and  had  an  indi- 
gestion in  consequence.  While  I was  suffering 
from  it,  I wrote  some  sadly  desponding  poems, 
and  a theological  essay  which  took  a very  melan- 
choly view  of  creation.  When  I got  better  I 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


95 

labelled  them  all  “ Pie-crust,”  and  laid  them  by 
as  scarecrows  and  solemn  warnings.  I have  a 
number  of  books  on  my  shelves  that  I should 
like  to  label  with  some  such  title ; but,  as  they 
have  great  names  on  their  title-pages,  — Doctors 
of  Divinity,  some  of  them,  — it  wouldn’t  do.] 

My  friend,  the  Professor,  whom  I have 

mentioned  to  you  once  or  twice,  told  me  yester- 
' day  that  somebody  had  been  abusing  him  in  some 
of  the  journals  of  his  calling.  I told  him  that  I 
did  n’t  doubt  he  deserved  it ; that  I hoped  he  did 
deserve  a little  abuse  occasionally,  and  would  for 
a number  of  years  to  come ; that  nobody  could  do 
anything  to  make  his  neighbors  wiser  or  better 
without  being  liable  to  abuse  for  it ; especially 
that  people  hated  to  have  their  little  mistakes 
made  fun  of,  and  perhaps  he  had  been  doing 
something  of  the  kind.  — The,  Professor  smiled.  — 
Now,  said  I,  hear  what  I am  going  to  say.  It 
will  not  take  many  years  to  bring  you  to  the 
period  of  life  when  men,  at  least  the  majority  of 
writing  and  talking  men,  do  nothing  but  praise. 
Men,  like  peaches  and  pears,  grow  sweet  a little 
while  before  they  begin  to  decay.  I don’t  know 
what  it  is,  — whether  a spontaneous  change,  men- 
tal or  bodily,  or  whether  it  is  thorough  experience 
of  the  thanklessness  of  critical  honesty,  — .but  it  is 
a fact,  that  most  writers,  except  sour  and  unsuc- 
cessful ones,  get  tired  of  finding  fault  at  about  the 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


9'6 

time  when  they  are  beginning  to  grow  old.  A?  a 
general  thing,  I would  not  give  a great  deal  for 
the  fair  words  of  a critic,  if  he  is  himself  an  author, 
over  fifty  years  of  age.  At  thirty  we  are  all  try- 
ing to  cut  our  names  in  big  letters  upon  the  walls 
of  this  tenement  of  life;  twenty  years  later  we 
have  carved  it,  or  shut  up  our  jackknives.  Then 
we  are  ready  to  help  others,  and  care  less  to  hin- 
der any,  because  nobody’s  elbows  are  in  our  way. 
So  I am  glad  you  have  a little  life  left;  you  will 
be  saccharine  enough  in  a few  years. 

Some  of  the  softening  effects  of  advancing 

age  have  struck  me  very  much  in  what  I have 
heard  or  seen  here  and  elsewhere.  I just  now 
spoke  of  the  sweetening  process  that  authors  un- 
dergo. Do  you  know  that  in  the  gradual  passage 
from  maturity  to  helplessness  the  harshest  char- 
acters sometimes  have  a period  in  which  they  are 
gentle  and  placid  as  young  children  ? I have 
heard  it  said,  but  I cannot  be  sponsor  for  its  truth, 
that  the  famous  chieftain,  Lochiel,  was  rocked  in 
a cradle  like  a baby,  in  his  old  age.  An  old  man, 
whose  studies  had  been  of  the  severest  scholastic 
kind,  used  to  love  to  hear  little  nursery-stories 
read  over  and  over  to  him.  One  who  saw  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  in  his  last  years  describes 
him  as  very  gentle  in  his  aspect  and  demeanor.  ] 
remember  a person  of  singularly  stern  and  lofty 
bearing  who  became  remarkably  gracious  and 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 


97 


easy  in  all  his  ways  in  the  later  period  of  his 
life. 

And  that  leads  me  to  say  that  men  often  re- 
mind me  of  pears  in  their  way  of  coming  to  matu- 
rity. Some  are  ripe  at  twenty,  like  human  Jar- 
gonelles, and  must  be  made  the  most  of,  for  their 
day  is  soon  over.  Some  come  into  their  perfect 
condition  late,  like  the  autumn  kinds,  and  they 
last  better  than  the  summer  fruit.  And  some, 
that,  like  the  Winter-Nelis,  have  been  hard  and 
uninviting  until  all  the  rest  have  had  their  season, 
get  their  glow  and  perfume  long  after  the  frost 
and  snow  have  done  their  worst  with  the  orchards. 
Beware  of  rash  criticisms ; the  rough  and  astrin- 
gent fruit  you  condemn  may  be  an  autumn  or  a 
winter  pear,  and  that  which  you  picked  up  beneath 
the  same  bough  in  August  may  have  been  only  its 
worm-eaten  windfalls.  Milton  was  a Saint-Ger- 
main with  a graft  of  the  roseate  Early-Catherine. 
Rich,  juicy,  lively,  fragrant,  russet-skinned  old 
Chaucer  was  an  Easter-Beurre  ; the  buds  of  a 
new  summer  were  swelling  when  he  ripened. 

There  is  no  power  I envy  so  much  — said 

the  divinity-student  — as  that  of  seeing  analogies 
and  making  comparisons.  I don’t  understand  how 
it  is  that  some  minds  are  continually  coupling 
thoughts  or  objects  that  seem  not  in  the  least  re- 
lated to  each  other,  until  all  at  once  they  are  put 
xii  a certain  light,  and  you  wonder  that  you  did 
7 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


98 

not  always  see  that  they  were  as  like  as  a pair  of 
twins.  It  appears  to  me  a sort  of  miraculous  gift. 

[He  is  a rather  nice  young  man,  and  I think  has 
an  appreciation  of  the  higher  mental  qualities  re< 
markable  for  one  of  his  years  and  training.  I try 
his  head  occasionally  as  housewives  try  eggs, — 
give  it  an  intellectual  shake  and  hold  it  up  to  the 
light,  so  to  speak,  to  see  if  it  has  life  in  it,  actual 
or  potential,  or  only  contains  lifeless  albumen.] 

You  call  it  miraculous , — I replied,  — tossing  the 
expression  with  my  facial  eminence,  a little  smartly, 
I fear.  — Two  men  are  walking  by  the  polyphloeS' 
boean  ocean,  one  of  them  having  a small  tin  cup 
with  which  he  can  scoop  up  a gill  of  sea-water 
when  he  will,  and  the  other  nothing  but  his  hands, 
which  will  hardly  hold  water  at  all,  — ■ and  you 
call  the  tin  cup  a miraculous  possession ! It  is 
the  ocean  that  is  the  miracle,  my  infant  apostle ! 
Nothing  is  clearer  than  that  all  things  are  in  all 
things,  and  that  just  according  to  the  intensity 
and  extension  of  our  mental  being  we  shall  see  the 
many  in  the  one  and  the  one  in  the  many.  Did 
Sir  Isaac  think  what  he  was  saying  when  he  made 
his  speech  about  the  ocean,  — the  child  and  the 
pebbles,  you  know  2 Did  he  mean  to  speak  slight- 
ingly of  a pebble  2 Of  a spherical  solid  which  stood 
sentinel  over  its  compartment  of  space  before  the 
stone  that  became  the  pyramids  had  grown  solid, 
and  has  watched  it  until  now  ! A body  which 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 


99 

knows  all  the  currents  of  force  that  traverse  the 
globe ; which  holds  by  invisible  threads  to  the  ring 
of  Saturn  and  the  belt  of  Orion ! A body  from 
the  contemplation  of  which  an  archangel  could  in- 
fer the  entire  inorganic  universe  as  the  simplest  of 
corollaries  ! A throne  of  the  all-pervading  Deity, 
who  has  guided  its  every  atom  since  the  rosary  of 
heaven  was  strung  with  beaded  stars ! 

So,  — to  return  to  our  walk  by  the  ocean,  — if 
all  that  poetry  has  dreamed,  all  that  insanity  has 
raved,  all  that  maddening  narcotics  have  driven 
through  the  brains  of  men,  or  smothered  passion 
nursed  in  the  fancies  of  women,  — if  the  dreams 
of  colleges  and  convents  and  boarding-schools, — 
if  every  human  feeling  that  sighs,  or  smiles,  or 
curses,  or  shrieks,  or  groans,  should  bring  all  their 
innumerable  images,  such  as  come  with  every  hur- 
ried heart-beat,  — the  epic  which  held  them  all, 
though  its  letters  filled  the  zodiac,  would  be  but  a 
cupAil  from  the  infinite  ocean  of  similitudes  and 
analogies  that  rolls  through  the  universe. 

[The  divinity-student  honored  himself  by  the 
way  in  which  he  received  this.  He  did  not  swal- 
low it  at  once,  neither  did  he  reject  it ; but  he  took 
it  as  a pickerel  takes  the  bait,  and  carried  it  off 
with  him  to  his  hole  (in  the  fourth  story)  to  deal 
with  at  his  leisure.] 

Here  is  another  remark  made  for  his  espe- 
cial benefit.  — There  is  a natural  tendency  in  many 


lOO 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


persons  to  run  their  adjectives  together  in  triads,  as  I 
have  heard  them  called,  — thus : He  was  honorable, 
courteous,  and  brave ; she  was  graceful,  pleasing, 
and  virtuous.  Dr.  Johnson  is  famous  for  this ; I 
think  it  was  Bulwer  who  said  you  could  separate  a 
paper  in  the  “ Rambler  ” into  three  distinct  essays. 
Many  of  our  writers  show  the  same  tendency,  — 
my  friend,  the  Professor,  especially.  Some  think 
(t  is  in  humble  imitation  of  Johnson,  — some  that 
it  is  for  the  sake  of  the  stately  sound  only.  1 
don’t  think  they  get  to  the  bottom  of  it.  It  is,  I sus- 
pect,  an  instinctive  and  involuntary  effort  of  the 
mind  to  present  a thought  or  image  with  the  three 
dimensions  that  belong  to  every  solid,  — an  uncon- 
scious handling  of  an  idea  as  if  it  had  length, 
breadth,  and  thickness.  It  is  a great  deal  easier 
to  say  this  than  to  prove  it,  and  a great  deal  easier 
to  dispute  it  than  to  disprove  it.  But  mind  this  : 
the  more  we  observe  and  study,  the  wider  we  find 
the  range  of  the  automatic  and  instinctive  princi- 
ples in  body,  mind,  and  morals,  and  the  narrower 
the  limits  of  the  self-determining  conscious,  move- 
ment. ’ ‘ • 

1 have  often  seen  piano-forte  players  and 

singers  make  such  strange  motions  over  their  in- 
struments or  song-books  that  I wanted  to  laugh  at 
them.  “ Where  did  our  friends  pick  up  all  these 
fine  ecstatic  airs  ? ” I would  say  to  myself.  Then 
I would  remember  My  Lady  in  “ Marriage  a la 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


101 


Mode,”  and  amuse  myself  with  thinking  how 
affectation  was  the  same  thing  in  Hogarth’s  time 
and  in  our  own.  But  one  day  I bought  me  a 
Canary-bird  and  hung  him  up  in  a cage  at  my 
window.  By  and  by  he  found  himself  at  home, 
and  began  to  pipe  his  little  tunes ; and  there  he  was, 
sure  enough,  swimming  and  waving  about,  with 
all  the  droopings  and  liftings  and  languishing  side- 
turnings  of  the  head  that  I had  laughed  at.  And 
now  I should  like  to  ask,  Who  taught  him  all 
this  ? — and  me,  through  him,  that  the  foolish  head 
was  not  the  one  swinging  itself  from  side  to  side 
and  bowing  and  nodding  over  the  music,  but  that 
other  which  was  passing  its  shallow  and  self-satis- 
fied judgment  on  a creature  made  of  finer  clay  than 
the  frame  which  carried  that  same  head  upon  its 
shoulders  ? 

Do  you  want  an  image  of  the  human  will, 

or  the  self-determining  principle,  as  compared  with 
its  prearranged  and  impassable  restrictions'?  A 
drop  of  water,  imprisoned  in  a crystal ; you  may 
see  such  a one  in  any  mineralogical  collection. 
One  little  fluid  particle  in  the  crystalline  prism  of 
the  solid  universe ! 

Weaken  moral  obligations  ? — No,  not 

weaken,  but  define  them.  When  I preach  that 
sermon  I spoke  of  the  other  day,  I shall  have  to 
lay  down  some  principles  not  fully  recognized  in 
some  of  your  text-books. 


102 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


I should  have  to  begin  with  one  most  formi- 
dable preliminary.  You  saw  an  article  the  other 
day  in  one  of  the  journals,  perhaps,  in  which 
some  old  Doctor  or  other  said  quietly  that  pa* 
tients  were  very  apt  to  be  fools  and  cowards.  But 
a great  many  of  the  clergyman’s  patients  are  not 
only  fools  and  cowards,  but  also  liars. 

[Immense  sensation  at  the  table. — Sudden  re- 
tirement of  the  angular  female  in  oxidated  bom- 
bazine. Movement  of  adhesion  — as  they  say  in 
the  Chamber  of  Deputies  — on  the  part  of  the 
young  fellow  they  call  John.  Falling  of  the  old- 
gentleman-opposite’s  lower  jaw  — (gravitation  is 
beginning  to  get  the  better  of  him.)  Our  land- 
lady to  Benjamin  Franklin,  briskly,  — Go  to 
school  right  off,  there ’s  a good  boy ! School- 
mistress curious,  — takes  a quick  glance  at  di- 
vinity-student. Divinity-student  slightly  flushed 
draws  his  shoulders  back  a little,  as  if  a big  false- 
hood — or  truth  — had  hit  him  in  the  forehead. 
Myself  calm.] 

I should  not  make  such  a speech  as  that, 

you  know,  without  having  pretty  substantial  in- 
dorsers to  fall  back  upon,  in  case  my  credit  should 
be  disputed.  Will  you  run  up  stairs,  Benjamin 
Franklin,  (for  B.  F.  had  not  gone  right  off,  of 
course,)  and  bring  down  a small  volume  from  the 
left  upper  corner  of  the  right-hand  shelves  ? 

[Look  at  the  precious  Jittle  black,  ribbed-backed, 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  103 

clean-typed,  vellum-papered  32mo.  “ Desiderii 

Erasmi  Colloquia.  Amstelodami  Typis  Lu- 
dovici  Elzevirii.  1650.”  Various  names  written 
on  title-page.  Most  conspicuous  this  : Gul.  Cooke- 
son  E.  Coll.  Omn.  Anim.  1725.  Oxon. 

0 William  Cookeson,  of  All-Souls  College, 

Oxford,  — then  writing  as  I now  write,  — now  in 
the  dust,  where  I shall  lie,  — is  this  line  all  that 
remains  to  thee  of  earthly  remembrance  ? Thy 
name  is  at  least  once  more  spoken  by  living  men ; 

— is  it  a pleasure  to  thee1?  Thou  shalt  share 
with  me  my  little  draught  of  immortality,  — its 
week,  its  month,  its  year,  — whatever  it  may  be, 

— and  then  we  will  go  together  into  the  solemn 
archives  of  Oblivion’s  Uncatalogued  Library  !] 

If  you  think  I have  used  rather  strong 

language,  I shall  have  to  read  something  to  you 
out  of  the  book  of  this  keen  and  witty  scholar,  — . 
the  great  Erasmus,  — who  “ laid  the  egg  of  the 
Reformation  which  Luther  hatched.”  0,  you 
never  read  his  Naufragium , or  “ Shipwreck,”  did 
you  ? Of  course  not ; for,  if  you  had,  I don’t 
think  you  would  have,  given  me  credit  — or  dis- 
credit — for  entire  originality  in  that  speech  of 
mine.  That  men  are  cowards  in  the  contempla- 
tion of  futurity  he  illustrates  by  the  extraordinary 
antics  of  many  on  board  the  sinking  vessel ; that 
they  are  fools,  by  their  praying  to  the  sea,  and 
making  promises  to  bits  of  wood  from  the  true 


io4 


TIIE  AUTOCRAT 


cross,  and  all  manner  of  similar  nonsense ; that 
they  are  fools,  cowards,  and  liars  all  at  once,  by 
this  story  : I will  put  it  into  rough  English  for 
you.  — “I could  n’t  help  laughing  to  hear  one  fel- 
low bawling  out,  so  that  he  might  be  sure  to  be 
heard,  a promise  to  St.  Christopher  of  Paris  — the 
monstrous  statue  in  the  great  church  there  — that 
he  would  give  him  a wax  taper  as  big  as  himself. 
1 Mind  what  you  promise ! ’ said  an  acquaintance 
that  stood  near  him,  poking  him  with  his  elbow  ; 
* you  could  n’t  pay  for  it,  if  you  sold  all  your 
things  at  auction.’  ‘ Hold  your  tongue,  you  don- 
key ! ’ said  the  fellow,  — but  softly,  so  that  Saint 
Christopher  should  not  hear  him,  — ‘ do  you  think 
I ’m  in  earnest  ? If  I once  get  my  foot  on  dry 
ground,  catch  me  giving  him  so  much  as  a tallow 
candle  ! ’ ” 

Now,  therefore,  remembering  that  those  who 
have  been  loudest  in  their  talk  about  the  great 
subject  of  which  we  were  speaking  have  not  neces- 
sarily been  wise,  brave,  and  true  men,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  have  very  often  been  wanting  in  one  or 
two  or  all  of  the  qualities  these  words  imply,  I 
should  expect  to  find  a good  many  doctrines  cur- 
rent in  the  schools  which  I should  be  obliged  to 
call  foolish,  cowardly,  and  false. 

So  you  would  abuse  other  people’s  beliefs, 

sir,  and  yet  not  tell  us  your  own  creed ! — said 
the  divinity-student,  coloring  up  with  a spirit  for 
which  I liked  him  all  the  better. 


OF  THE  BREAK  FAS  T-  TABLE.  105 

I have  a creed,  — I replied ; — none  better, 

and  none  shorter.  It  is  told  in  two  words, — the 
two  first  of  the  Paternoster.  And  when  I say 
these  words  I mean  them.  And  when  I compared 
the  human  will  to  a drop  in  a crystal,  and  said  I 
meant  to  define  moral  obligations,  and  not  weaken 
them,  this  was  what  I intended  to  express  : that 
the  fluent,  self-determining  power  of  human  beings 
is  a very  strictly  limited  agency  in  the  universe. 
The  chief  planes  of  its  enclosing  solid  are,  of 
course,  organization,  education,  condition.  Or- 
ganization may  reduce  the  power  of  the  will  to 
nothing,  as  in  some  idiots ; and  from  this  zero  the 
scale  mounts  upwards  by  slight  gradations.  Edu- 
cation is  only  second  to  nature.  Imagine  all  the 
infants  born  this  year  in  Boston  and  Timbuctoo 
to  change  places  ! Condition  does  less,  but  “ Give 
me  neither  poverty  nor  riches  ” was  the  prayer 
of  Agur,  and  with  good  reason.  If  there  is  any 
improvement  in  modern  theology,  it  is  in  getting 
out  of  the  region  of  pure  abstractions  and  taking 
these  every-day  working  forces  into  account.  The 
great  theological  question  now  heaving  and  throb- 
bing in  the  minds  of  Christian  men  is  this  : 

No,  I won’t  talk  about  these  things  now.  My 
remarks  might  be  repeated,  and  it  would  give  my 
friends  pain  to  see  with  what  personal  incivilities 
I should  be  visited.  Besides,  what  business  has  a 
mere  boarder  to  be  talking  about  such  things  at  a 


io6 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


breakfast-table  ? Let  him  make  puns.  To  be 
sure,  he  was  brought  up  among  the  Christian 
fathers,  and  learned  his  alphabet  out  of  a quarto 
“ Concilium  Tridcntinum.”  He  has  also  heard 
many  thousand  theological  lectures  by  men  of 
various  denominations ; and  it  is  not  at  all  to 
the  credit  of  these  teachers,  if  he  is  not  fit  by 
this  time  to  express  an  opinion  on  theological 
matters. 

I know  well  enough  that  there  are  some  of  you 
who  had  a great  deal  rather  see  me  stand  on  my 
head  than  use  it  for  any  purpose  of  thought.  Does 
not  my  friend,  the  Professor,  receive  at  least  two 

letters  a week,  requesting  him  to 

, — on  the  strength  of  some  youthful  antic 

of  his,  which,  no  doubt,  authorizes  the  intelligent 
constituency  of  autograph-hunters  to  address  him 
as  a harlequin  ? 

Well,  I can’t  be  savage  with  you  for  want- 
ing to  laugh,  and  I like  to  make  you  laugh,  well 
enough,  when  I can.  But  then  observe  this  : if  the 
sense  of  the  ridiculous  is  one  side  of  an  impressible 
nature,  it  is  very  well ; but  if  that  is  all  there  is  in 
a man,  he  had  better  have  been  an  ape  at  once,  and 
so  have  stood  at  the  head  of  his  profession.  Laugh- 
ter and  tears  are  meant  to  turn  the  wheels  of  the 
same  machinery  of  sensibility ; one  is  wind-power, 
and  the  other  water-power ; that  is  all.  I have 
often  heard  the  Professor  talk  about  hysterics  as 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  107 

being  Nature's  cleverest  illustration  of  the  recipro- 
cal convertibility  of  the  two  states  of  which  these 
acts  are  the  manifestations ; but  you  may  see  it 
every  day  in  children ; and  if  you  want  to  choke 
with  stifled  tears  at  sight  of  the  transition,  as  it 
shows  itself  in  older  years,  go  and  see  Mr.  Blake 
play  Jesse  Rural. 

It  is  a very  dangerous  thing  for  a literary  man 
to  indulge  his  love  for  the  ridiculous.  People  laugh 
with  him  just  so  long  as  he  amuses  them ; but  if  he 
attempts  to  be  serious,  they  must  still  have  their 
laugh,  and  so  they  laugh  at  him.  There  is  in  addi- 
tion, however,  a deeper  reason  for  this  than  would 
at  first  appear.  Do  you  know  that  you  feel  a lit- 
tle superior  to  every  man  who  makes  you  laugh, 
whether  by  making  faces  or  verses  % Are  you  aware 
that  you  have  a pleasant  sense  of  patronizing  him, 
when  you  condescend  so  far  as  to  let  him  turn 
somersets,  literal  or  literary,  for  your  royal  de- 
light % Now  if  a man  can  only  be  allowed  to  stand 
on  a da'is,  or  raised  platform,  and  look  down  on 
his  neighbor  who  is  exerting  his  talent  for  him,  O 
it  is  all  right ! — first-rate  performance  ! — and  all 
the  rest  of  the  fine  phrases.  But  if  all  at  once  the 
performer  asks  the  gentleman  to  come  upon  the 
floor,  and,  stepping  upon  the  platform,  begins  to 
talk  down  at  him,  — ah,  that  was  n't  in  the  pro- 
gramme ! 

I have  never  forgotten  what  happened  when  %d- 


io8 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


ney  Smith  — who,  as  everybody  knows,  was  an 
exceedingly  sensible  man,  and  a gentleman,  every 
inch  of  him  — ventured  to  preach  a f ermon  on  the 
Duties  of  Royalty.  The  “ Quarterly,”  “ so  sav- 
age and  tartarly,”  came  down  upon  him  in  the 
most  contemptuous  style,  as  “ a joker  of  jokes,”  a 
“ diner-out  of  the  first  water,”  in  one  of  his  own 
phrases ; sneering  at  him,  insulting  him,  as  noth- 
ing but  a toady  of  a court,  sneaking  behind  the 
anonymous,  would  ever  have  been  mean  enough  to 
do  to  a man  of  his  position  and  genius,  or  to  any 
decent  person  even.  — If  I were  giving  advice  to  a 
young  fellow  of  talent,  with  two  or  three  facets  to 
his  mind,  I would  tell  him  by  all  means  to  keep 
his  wit  in  the  background  until  after  he  had  made 
a reputation  by  his  more  solid  qualities.  And  so 
to  an  actor  : Hamlet  first,  and  Bob  Logic  afterwards, 
if  you  like ; but  don’t  think,  as  they  say  poor  Lis- 
ton used  to,  that  people  will  be  ready  to  allow  that 
you  can  do  anything  great  with  Macbeth's  dagger 
after  flourishing  about  with  Paul  Pry's  umbrella. 
Do  you  know,  too,  that  the  majority  of  men  look 
upon  all  who  challenge  their  attention,  — for  a 
while,  at  least,  — as  beggars,  and  nuisances  ? They 
always  try  to  get  off  as  cheaply  as  they  can ; and 
the  cheapest  of  all  things  they  can  give  a literary 
man  — pardon  the  forlorn  pleasantry  ! — is  the 
funny- bone.  That  is  all  very  well  so  far  as  it  goes, 
but  satisfies  no  man,  and  makes  a good  many  am 
gry,  as  I told  you  on  a former  occasion. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  109 

0.,  indeed,  no ! — I am  not  ashamed  to 

make  you  laugh,  occasionally.  I think  I could 
read  you  something  I have  in  my  desk  which  would 
probably  make  you  smile.  Perhaps  I will  read  it 
one  of  these  days,  if  you  are  patient  with  me  when 
I am  sentimental  and  reflective ; not  j ust  now.  The 
ludicrous  has  its  place  in  the  universe ; it  is  not  a 
human  invention,  but  one  of  the  Divine  ideas,  illus- 
trated. in  the  practical  jokes  of  kittens  and  monkeys 
long  before  Aristophanes  or  Shakespeare.  How 
curious  it  is  that  we  always  consider  solemnity 
and  the  absence  of  all  gay  surprises  and  encounter 
of  wits  as  essential  to  the  idea  of  the  future  life  of 
those  whom  we  thus  deprive  of  half  their  faculties 
and  then  call  blessed!  There  are  not  a few  who, 
even  in  this  life,  seem  to  be  preparing  themselves 
for  that  smileless  eternity  to  which  they  look  for- 
ward, by  banishing  all  gavety  from  their  hearts 
and  all  joyousness  from  their  countenances.  1 
meet  one  such  in  the  street  not  unfrequently,  a 
person  of  intelligence  and  education,  but  who  gives 
me  (and  all  that  he  passes)  such  a ray  less  and 
chilling  look  of  recognition,  — something  as  if  he 
were  one  of  Heaven’s  assessors,  come  down  to 
“ doom  ” every  acquaintance  he  met,  — that  I have 
sometimes  begun  to  sneeze  on  the  spot,  and  gone 
home  with  a violent  cold,  dating  from  that  instant. 
I don’t  doubt  he  would  cut  his  kitten’s  tail  off,  if 
he  caught  her  playing  with  it.  Please  tell  me,  who 
taught  her  to  play  with  it  ? 


JIO 


THE  AU10CRAT 


No,  no ! — give  me  a chance  to  talk  to  you,  my 
fellow-boarders,  and  you  need  not  be  afraid  that  1 
shall  have  any  scruples  about  entertaining  you,  if 
I can  do  it,  as  well  as  giving  you  some  of  my  se- 
rious thoughts,  and  perhaps  my  sadder  fancies.  I 
know  nothing  in  English  or  any  other  literature 
more  admirable  than  that  sentiment  of  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  : “ Every  man  truly  lives,  so  long  as 

HE  ACTS  HIS  NATURE,  OR  SOME  WAY  MAKES  GOOD 
THE  FACULTIES  OF  HIMSELF.” 

I find  the  great  thing  in  this  world  is,  not  so 
much  where  we  stand,  as  in  what  direction  we  are 
moving.  To  reach  the  port  of  heaven,  we  must 
s^ljsometimes  with  the  wind  and  sometimes  against 
it,  — but  we  must  sail,  and  not  drift,  nor  lie  at  am 
chor.  There  is  one  very  sad  thing  in  old  friend- 
ships, to  every  mind  that  is  really  moving  onward. 
It  is  this  : that  one  cannot  help  using  his  early 
friends  as  the  seaman  uses  the  log,  to  mark  his 
progress.  Every  now  and  then  we  throw  an  old 
schoolmate  over  the  stern  with  a string  of  thought 
tied  to  him,  and  look  — I am  afraid  with  a kind 
of  luxurious  and  sanctimonious  compassion  — to 
see  the  rate  at  which  the  string  reels  off,  while  he 
lies  there  bobbing  up  and  down,  poor  fellow  ! and 
we  are  dashing  along  with  the  white  foam  and 
bright  sparkle  at  our  bows ; — the  ruffled  bosom 
of  prosperity  and  progress,  with  a sprig  of  dia- 
monds stuck  in  it!  But  this  is  only  the  senti- 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


1 1 1 


mental  side  of  the  matter ; for  grow  we  must,  if  we 
outgrow  all  that  we  love. 

Don't  misunderstand  that  metaphor  of  heaving 
the  log,  I beg  you.  It  is  merely  a smart  way  of 
saying  that  we  cannot  avoid  measuring  our  rate  of 
movement  by  those  with  whom  we  have  long  been 
in  the  habit  of  comparing  ourselves  ; and  when  they 
once  become  stationary,  we  can  get  our  reckoning 
from  them  with  painful  accuracy.  We  see  just 
what  we  were  when  they  were  our  peers,  and  can 
strike  the  balance  between  that  and  whatever  we 
may  feel  ourselves  to  be  now.  No  doubt  we  may 
sometimes  be  mistaken.  If  we  change  our  last 
simile  to  that  very  old  and  familiar  one  of  a fleet 
leaving  the  harbor  and  sailing  in  company  for  some 
distant  region,  we  can  get  what  we  want  out  of  it. 
There  is  one  of  our  companions  ; — her  streamers 
were  torn  into  rags  before  she  had  got  into  the 
open  sea,  then  by  and  by  her  sails  blew  out  of  the 
ropes  one  after  another,  the  waves  swept  her  deck, 
and  as  night  came  on  we  left  her  a seeming  wreck, 
as  we  flew  under  our  pyramid  of  canvas.  But  lo  ! 
at  dawn  she  is  still  in  sight,  — it  may  be  in  advance 
of  us.  Some  deep  ocean-current  has  been  moving 
her  on,  strong,  but  silent,  — yes,  stronger  than 
these  noisy  wind?  that  puff  our  sails  until  they  are 
swollen  as  the  cheeks  of  jubilant  cherubim.  And 
when  at  last  the  black  steam-tug  with  the  skeleton 
arms,  which  comes  out  of  the  mist  sooner  or  later 


I I 2 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


and  takes  us  all  in  tow,  grapples  her  and  goes  off 
panting  and  groaning  with  her,  it  is  to  that  harbor 
where  all  wrecks  are  refitted,  and  where,  alas ! we, 
towering  in  our  pride,  may  never  come. 

So  you  will  not  think  I mean  to  speak  lightly  of 
old  friendships,  because  we  cannot  help  instituting 
comparisons  between  our  present  and  former  selves 
by  the  aid  of  those  who  were  what  we  were,  but 
are  not  what  we  are.  Nothing  strikes  one  more, 
in  the  race  of  life,  than  to  see  how  many  give 
out  in  the  first  half  of  the  course.  “ Commence- 
ment day ” always  reminds  me  of  the  start  for  the 
“ Derby,”  when  the  beautiful  high-bred  three-year 
olds  of  the  season  are  brought  up  for  trial.  That 
day  is  the  start,  and  life  is  the  race.  Here  we  are 
at  Cambridge,  and  a class  is  just  “graduating.” 
Poor  Harry ! he  was  to  have  been  there  too,  but  he 
has  paid  forfeit;  step  out  here  into  the  grass  be- 
hind the  church ; ah ! there  it  is  : — 

“Hunc  lapidem  posuerunt 

Socil  M CERENT  ES.” 

But  this  is  the  start,  and  here  they  are,  — coats 
bright  as  silk,  and  manes  as  smooth  as  eciu  lustrale 
can  make  them.  Some  of  the  best  of  the  colts  are 
pranced  round,  a few  minutes  each,  to  show  their 
paces.  What  is  that  old  gentleman  crying  about  1 
and  the  old  lady  by  him,  and  the  three  girls,  what 
are  they  all  covering  their  eyes  for  ? O,  that  is 


Of  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  113 

thei  colt  which  has  just  been  trotted  up  on  the 
f Jo  they  really  think  those  little  thin  legs 

uo  anything  in  such  a slashing  sweepstakes  as 
is  coming  off  in  these  next  forty  years  7 O,  this 
terrible  gift  of  second-sight  that  comes  to  some  of 
us  when  we  begin  to  look  through  the  silvered 
rings  of  the  arcus  senilis ! 

Ten  years  gone.  First  turn  in  the  race.  A few 
broken  down ; two  or  three  bolted.  Several  show 
in  advance  of  the  ruck.  Cassock , a black  colt, 

seems  to  be  ahead  of  the  rest ; those  black  colts 
commonly  get  the  start,  I have  noticed,  of  the 
others,  in  the  first  quarter.  Meteor  has  pulled  up. 

Twenty  years.  Second  corner  turned.  Cassock 
has  dropped  from  the  front,  and  Judex , an  iron- 
gray,  has  the  lead.  But  look  ! how  they  have  thin- 
ned out ! Down  flat,  — five,  — six,  — how  many  7 
They  lie  still  enough  ! they  will  not  get  up  again 
in  this  race,  be  very  sure  ! And  the  rest  of  them, 
what  a “ tailing  off  ” ! Anybody  can  see  who  is 
going  to  win,  — perhaps. 

Thirty  years.  Third  corner  turned.  Dives , bright 
sorrel,  ridden  by  the  fellow  in  a yellow  jacket,  be- 
gins to  make  play  fast ; is  getting  to  be  the  favorite 
with  many.  But  who  is  that  other  one  that  has 
been  lengthening  his  stride  from  the  first,  and  now 
shows  close  up  to  the  front  7 Don't  you  remember 
the  quiet  brown  colt  Asteroid , with  the  star  in  his 
forehead  7 That  is  he ; he  is  one  of  the  sort  that 


ii4 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


lasts  ; look  out  for  him  ! The  black  “ col^ 
used  to  call  him,  is  in  the  background,  t^j 
easily  in  a gentle  trot.  There  is  one  they  use! 
call  the  Filly , on  account  of  a certain  feminine  air 
he  had ; well  up,  you  see ; the  Filly  is  not  to  be 
despised,  my  boy ! 

Forty  years.  More  dropping  off,  — but  places 
much  as  before. 

Fifty  years.  Pace  over.  All  that  are  on  the 
course  are  coming  in  at  a walk  ; no  more  running. 
Who  is  ahead  ? Ahead  ? What ! and  the  win- 
ning-post a slab  of  white  or  gray  stone  standing 
out  from  that  turf  where  there  is  no  more  jockey- 
ing or  straining  for  victory ! Well,  the  world 
marks  their  places  in  its  betting-book ; but  be 
sure  that  these  matter  very  little,  if  they  have  run 
as  well  as  they  knew  how ! 

Did  I not  say  to  you  a little  while  ago 

that  the  universe  swam  in  an  ocean  of  similitudes 
and  analogies'?  I will  not  quote  Cowley,  or 
Burns,  or  Wordsworth,  just  now,  to  show  you 
what  thoughts  were  suggested  to  them  by  the 
simplest  natural  objects,  such  as  a flower  or  a 
leaf ; but  I will  read  you  a few  lines,  if  you  dc 
not  object,  suggested  by  looking  at  a section  of 
one  of  those  chambered  shells  to  which  is  given 
the  name  of  Pearly  Nautilus.  We  need  not 
trouble  ourselves  about  the  distinction  between 
this  and  the  Paper  Nautilus,  the  Argonauta  of  the 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  u5 

ancip  The  name  applied  to  both  shows  that 

ear  long  been  compared  to  a ship,  as  you 

e more  fully  in  Webster’s  Dictionary,  or 
Encyclopaedia,”  to  which  he  refers.  If  you 
.ii  look  into  Roget’s  Bridgewater  Treatise,  you 
will  find  a figure  of  one  of  these  shells,  and  a sec- 
tion of  it.  The  last  will  show  you  the  series  of 
enlarging  compartments  successively  dwelt  in  by 
the  animal  that  inhabits  the  shell,  which  is  built 
in  a widening  spiral.  Can  you  find  no  lesson  in 
this  % 


THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS.! 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main, — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 

Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl *, 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 

Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell. 

As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed,  — 

Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed  ! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 
That  spread  his  lustrous  coil  5 
Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 

He  left  the  past  year’s  dwelling  for  the  new, 

Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no  more. 

1 Note  Q. 


1 16 


T1IE  AUTOCRAT 


Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  tho^ 
Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap  forlorn  ! 

From  thy  dead  lips  a clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn  ! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 

Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I hear 
sings : — 


Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  0 my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past  ! 

Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 

Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 

Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life’s  unresting  sea  ! 


OP  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


V, 


LYRIC  conception  — my  friend,  the 
Poet,  said  — hits  me  like  a bullet  in 
the  forehead.  I have  often  had  the 
blood  drop  from  my  cheeks  when  it 
struck,  and  felt  that  I turned  as  white  as  death. 
Then  comes  a creeping  as  of  centipedes  running 
down  the  spine,  — then  a gasp  and  a great  jump 
of  the  heart,  — then  a sudden  flush  and  a beating 
in  the  vessels  of  the  head,  — then  a long  sigh,  — 
and  the  poem  is  written. 

It  is  an  impromptu,  I suppose,  then,  if  you 
write  it  so  suddenly,  — I replied. 

No,  — said  he,  — far  from  it.  I said  written, 
but  I did  not  say  copied.  Every  such  poem  has 
a soul  and  a body,  and  it  is  the  body  of  it,  or  the 
copy,  that  men  read  and  publishers  pay  for.  The 
soul  of  it  is  born  in  an  instant  in  the  poet’s  soul. 
It  comes  to  him  a thought,  tangled  in  the  meshes 
of  a few  sweet  words,  — words  that  have  loved 
each  other  from  the  cradle  of  the  language,  but 
have  never  been  wedded  until  now.  Whether  it 
will  ever  fully  embody  itself  in  a bridal  train  of  a 
dozen  stanzas  or  not  is  uncertain ; but  it  exists 


TI1E  AUTOCRAT 


potentially  from  the  instant  that  the  poet  turns 
pale  with  it.  It  is  enough  to  stun  and  scare  any- 
body, to  have  a hot  thought  come  crashing  into 
his  brain,  and  ploughing  up  those  parallel  ruts 
where  the  wagon  trains  of  common  ideas  were 
jogging  along  in  their  regular  sequences  of  as- 
sociation. No  wonder  the  ancients  made  the 
poetical  impulse  wholly  external.  Mr]viv  ciei.de 
Qea  • Goddess,  — Muse,  — divine  afflatus,  — some- 
thing outside  always.  I never  wrote  any  verses 
worth  reading.  I can’t.  I am  too  stupid.  If  I 
ever  copied  *any  that  were  worth  reading,  I was 
only  a medium. 

[I  was  talking  all  this  time  to  our  boarders,  you 
understand,  — telling  them  what  this  poet  told 
me.  The  company  listened  rather  attentively,  I 
thought,  considering  the  literary  character  of  the 
remarks.] 

The  old  gentleman  opposite  all  at  once  asked 
me  if  I ever  read  anything  better  than  Pope’s 
“ Essay  on  Man  ” ? Had  I ever  perused  McFin- 
gal  ? He  was  fond  of  poetry  when  he  was  a boy, 

— > his  mother  taught  him  to  say  many  little  pieces, 

— he  remembered  one  beautiful  hymn  ; — and  the 
old  gentleman  began,  in  a clear,  loud  voice,  for 
his  years, — 

u The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 

With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 

And  spangled  heavens,” 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  n9 

He  stopped,  as  if  startled  by  our  silence,  and  a 
faint  flush  ran  up  beneath  the  thin  white  hairs 
that  fell  upon  his  cheek.  As  I looked  round,  I 
was  ren  inded  of  a show  I once  saw  at  the  Muse- 
um,— tne  Sleeping  Beauty,  I think  they  called  it. 
The  old  man’s  sudden  breaking  out  in  this  way 
turned  every  face  towards  him,  and  each  kept  his 
posture  as  if  changed  to  stone.  Our  Celtic  Bridg- 
et, or  Biddy,  is  not  a foolish  fat  scullion  to  burst 
out  crying  for  a sentiment.  She  is  of  the  service- 
able, red-handed,  broad-and-high-shouldered  type; 
one  of  those  imported  female  servants  who  are 
known  in  public  by  their  amorphous  style  of 
person,  their  stoop  forwards,  and  a headlong  and 
as  it  were  precipitous  walk,  — the  waist  plunging 
downwards  into  the  rocking  pelvis  at  every  heavy 
footfall.  Bridget,  constituted  for  action,  not  for 
emotion,  was  about  to  deposit  a plate  heaped  with 
something  upon  the  table,  when  I saw  the  coarse 
arm  stretched  by  my  shoulder  arrested,  — motion- 
less as  the  arm  of  a terra-cotta  caryatid  ; she 
could  n’t  set  the  plate  down  while  the  old  gentle- 
man was  speaking  ! 

He  was  quite  silent  after  this,  still  wearing  the 
slight  flush  on  his  cheek.  Don’t  ever  think  the 
poetry  is  dead  in  an  old  man  because  his  forehead 
is  wrinkled,  or  that  his  manhood  has  left  him 
when  his  hand  trembles  ! If  they  ever  were  there, 
they  are  there  still! 


20 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


By  and  by  we  got  talking  again. Does  a 

poet  love  the  verses  written  through  him,  do  you 
think,  sir?  — said  the  divinity-student. 

So  long  as  they  are  warm  from  his  min  l,  carry 
any  of  his  animal  heat  about  them,  I know  he  loves 
them,  — I answered.  When  they  have  had  time 
to  cool,  he  is  more  indifferent. 

A good  deal  as  it  is  with  buckwheat  cakes,  — 
said  the  young  fellow  whom  they  call  John. 

The  last  words,  only,  reached  the  ear  of  the 
economically  organized  female  in  black  bomba- 
zine.   Buckwheat  is  skerce  and  high,  — she 

remarked.  [Must  be  a poor  relation  sponging 
on  our  landlady,  — pays  nothing,  — so  she  must 
stand  by  the  guns  and  be  ready  to  repel  board- 
ers.] 

I liked  the  turn  the  conversation  had  taken,  for 
I had  some  things  I wanted  to  say,  and  so,  after 
waiting  a minute,  I began  again.  — I don’t  think 
the  poems  I read  you  sometimes  can  be  fairly  ap- 
preciated, given  to  you  as  they  are  in  the  green 
state. 

You  don’t  know  what  I mean  by  the 

yreen  state  ? Well,  then,  I will  tell  you.  Certain 
things  are  good  for  nothing  until  they  have  been 
kept  a long  while  ; and  some  are  good  for  nothing 
until  they  have  been  long  kept  and  used.  • Of  the 
first,  wine  is  the  illustrious  and  immortal  example. 
Of  those  which  must  be  kept  and  used  I will 


Ob  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


I 2 1 


name  th/ee,  — meerschaum  pipes,  violins,  and 
poems.  The  meerschaum  is  but  a poor  affair 
until  it  has  burned  a thousand  offerings  to  the 
cloud-compellieg  deities.  It  comes  to  us  without 
complexion  or  flavor,  — born  of  the  sea-foam,  like 
Aphrodite,  but  colorless  as  pallida  Mors  herself. 
The  fire  is  lighted  in  its  central  shrine,  and  grad- 
ually the  juices  which  the  broad  leaves  of  the 
Great  Vegetable  had  sucked  up  from  an  acre  and 
curdled  into  a drachm  are  diffused  through  its 
thirsting  pores.  First  a discoloration,  then  a 
stain,  and  at  last  a rich,  glowing,  umber  tint 
spreading  over  the  whole  surface.  Nature  true  to 
her  old  brown  autumnal  hue,  you  see,  — as  true 
in  the  fire  of  the  meerschaum  as  in  the  sunshine 
of  October  ! And  then  the  cumulative  wealth  of 
its  fragrant  reminiscences  ! he  who  inhales  its  va' 
pors  takes  a thousand  whiffs  in  a single  breath  * 
and  one  cannot  touch  it  without  awakening  th' 
old  joys  that  hang  around  it  as  the  smell  of  flow- 
ers clings  to  the  dresses  of  the  daughters  of  th* 
house  of  Farina! 

[Don’t  think  I use  a meerschaum  myself,  fty 
I do  not , though  I have  owned  a calumet  since  m* 
childhood,  which  from  a naked  Piet  (of  the  Mo* 
hawk  species)  my  grandsire  won,  together  with  9 
tomahawk  and  beaded  knife-sheath ; paying  for 
the  lot  with  a bullet-mark  on  his  right  cheek.  On 
the  maternal  side  I inherit  the  loveliest  silver- 


122 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


mounted  tobacco-stopper  you  ever  saw.  It  is  a 
little  box-wood  Triton,  carved  with  charming 
liveliness  and  truth ; I have  often  compared  it  to 
a figure  in  Raphael's  “ Triumph  of  ilalatea.”  It 
came  to  me  in  an  ancient  shagreen  case,  — how 
old  it  is  I do  not  know,  — but  it  must  have  been 
made  since  Sir  Walter  Raleigh’s  time.  If  you  are 
curious,  you  shall  see  it  any  day.  Neither  will  I 
pretend  that  I am  so  unused  to  the  more  perish- 
able smoking  contrivance  that  a few  whiffs  would 
make  me  feel  as  if  I lay  in  a ground-swell  on  the 
Bay  of  Biscay.  I am  not  unacquainted  with  that 
fusiform,  spiral-wound  bundle  of  chopped  stems 
and  miscellaneous  incombustibles,  the  cigar , so 
called,  of  the  shops,  — which  to  “ draw  ” asks  the 
suction-power  of  a nursling  infant  Hercules,  and 
to  relish,  the  leathery  palate  of  an  old  Silenus. 
I do  not  advise  you,  young  man,  even  if  my  illus- 
tration strike  your  fancy,  to  consecrate  the  flower 
of  your  life  to  painting  the  bowl  of  a pipe,  for,  let 
me  assure  you,  the  stain  of  a reverie-breeding  nar- 
cotic may  strike  deeper  than  you  think  for.  I 
have  seen  the  green  leaf  of  early  promise  grow 
brown  before  its  time  under  such  Nicotian  regi- 
men, and  thought  the  umbered  meerschaum  was 
dearly  bought  at  the  cost  of  a brain  enfeebled  and 
a will  enslaved.] 

Violins,  too,  — the  sweet  old  Amati ! — the  di- 
vine Stradivarius  ! Played  on  by  ancient  maestros 


CF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  123 

until  the  bow-hand  lost  its  power  and  the  flying 
fingers  stiffened.  Bequeathed  to  the  passionate 
young  enthusiast,  who  made  it  whisper  his  hidden 
love,  and  cry  his  inarticulate  longings,  and  scream 
his  untold  agonies,  and  wail  his  monotonous  de- 
spair. Passed  from  his  dying  hand  to  the  cold 
virtuoso,  who  let  it  slumber  in  its  case  for  a gener- 
ation, till,  when  his  hoard  was  broken  up,  it  came 
forth  once  more  and  rode  the  stormy  symphonies 
of  royal  orchestras,  beneath  the  rushing  bow  of 
their  lord  and  leader.  Into  lonely  prisons  with 
improvident  artists ; into  convents  from  which 
arose,  day  and  night,  the  holy  hymns  with  which 
its  tones  were  blended ; and  back  again  to  orgies 
in  which  it  learned  to  howl  and  laugh  as  if  a 
legion  of  devils  were  shut  up  in  it ; then  again  to 
the  gentle  dilettante  who  calmed  it  down  with  easy 
melodies  until  it  answered  him  softly  as  in  the 
days  of  the  old  maestros.  And  so  given  into  our 
hands,  its  pores  all  full  of  music ; stained,  like  the 
meerschaum,  through  and  through,  with  the  con- 
centrated hue  and  sweetness  of  all  the  harmonies 
which  have  kindled  and  faded  on  its  strings. 

’‘Now  I tell  you  a poem  must  be  kept  and  used , 
like  a meerschaum,  or  a violin.  A poem  is  just  as 
porous  as  the  meerschaum ; — the  more  porous  it 
is  the  better.  I mean  to  say  that  a genuine  poem 
is  capable  of  absorbing  an  indefinite  amount  of  the 
essence  of  our  own  humanity,  — its  tenderness,  its 


T24 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


heroism,  its  regrets,  its  aspirations,  so  as  to  be 
gradually  stained  through  with  a divine  secondary 
color  derived  from  ourselves.  So  you  see  it  must 
take  time  to  bring  the  sentiment  of  a poem  into 
harmony  with  our  nature,  by  staining  ourselves 
through  every  thought  and  image  our  being  can 
penetrate. 

Then  again  as  to  the  mere  music  of  a new  poem  ; 
why,  who  can  expect  anything  more  from  that  than 
from  the  music  of  a violin  fresh  from  the  maker's 
hands  ? Now  you  know  very  well  that  there  are 
no  less  than  fifty-eight  different  pieces  in  a violin. 
These  pieces  are  strangers  to  each  other,  and  it 
takes  a century,  more  or  less,  to  make  them  thor- 
oughly acquainted.  At  last  they  learn  to  vibrate  in 
harmony,  and  the  instrument  becomes  an  organic 
whole,  as  if  it  were  a great  seed-capsule  which  had 
grown  from  a garden-bed  in  Cremona,  or  elsewhere. 
Besides,  the  wood  is  juicy  and  full  of  sap  for  fifty 
years  or  so,  but  at  the  end  of  fifty  or  a hundred 
more  gets  tolerably  dry  and  comparatively  resonant. 

Don't  you  see  that  all  this  is  just  as  true  of  a 
poem  ? Counting  each  word  as  a piece,  there  are 
more  pieces  in  an  average  copy  of  verses  than  in 
a violin.  The  poet  has  forced  all  these  words 
together,  and  fastened  them,  and  they  don't  under- 
stand it  at  first.  But  let  the  poem  be  repeated 
aloud  and  murmured  over  in  the  mind’s  muffled 
whisper  often  enough,  and  at  length  the  parts 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  125 

become  knit  together  in  such,  absolute  solidarity 
that  you  could  not  change  a syllable  without  the 
whole  world’s  crying  out  against  you  for  meddling 
with  the  harmonious  fabric.  Observe,  too,  how  the 
drying  process  takes  place  in  the  stuff  of  a poem 
just  as  in  that  of  a violin.  Here  is  a Tyrolese  fid- 
dle that  is  just  coming  to  its  hundredth  birthday, 
— (Pedro  Kiauss,  Tyroli,  fecit,  1760),  — the  sap 
is  pretty  well  out  of  it.  And  here  is  the  song  of 
an  old  poet  whom  Nesera  cheated  : — 

“ Nox  erat,  et  ccelo  fulgebat  Luna  sereno 
Inter  minora  sidera, 

Cum  tu  magnorum  numen  laesura  deorum 
In  verba  jurabas  mea.” 

Don’t  you  perceive  the  sonorousness  of  these  old 
dead  Latin  phrases  ? Now  I tell  you  that  every 
word  fresh  from  the  dictionary  brings  with  it  a cer- 
tain succulence ; and  though  I cannot  expect  the 
sheets  of  the  “ Pactolian,”  in  which,  as  I told  you, 
I sometimes  print  my  verses,  to  get  so  dry  as  the 
crisp  papyrus  that  held  those  words  of  Ho  rati  us 
Flaccus,  yet  you  may  be  sure,  that,  while  the  sheets 
are  damp,  and  while  the  lines  hold  their  sap,  you 
can’t  fairly  judge  of  my  performances,  and  that,  if 
made  of  the  true  stuff,  they  will  ring  better  after  a 
while. 

[There  was  silence  for  a brief  space,  after  my 
somewhat  elaborate  exposition  of  these  self-evident 
analogies.  Presently  a person  turned  towards  me 


26 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


• — I do  not  choose  to  designate  the  individual  — 
and  said  that  he  rather  expected  my  pieces  had 
given  pretty  good  “ sahtisfahction.”  — I had,  up  to 
this  moment,  considered  this  complimentary  phrase 
as  sacred  to  the  use  of  secretaries  of  lyceums,  and, 
as  it  has  been  usually  accompanied  by  a small 
pecuniary  testimonial,  have  acquired  a certain  rel- 
ish for  this  moderately  tepid  and  unstimulating 
expression  of  enthusiasm.  But  as  a reward  for 
gratuitous  services,  I confess  I thought  it  a little 
below  that  blood-heat  standard  which  a man’s 
breath  ought  to  have,  whether  silent,  or  vocal  and 
articulate.  I waited  for  a favorable  opportunity, 
however,  before  making  the  remarks  which  follow.] 

There  are  single  expressions,  as  I have  told 

you  already,  that  fix  a man’s  position  for  you  be- 
fore you  have  done  shaking  hands  with  him.  Al- 
low me  to  expand  a little.  There  are  several  things, 
very  slight  in  themselves,  yet  implying  other  things 
not  so  unimportant.  Thus,  your  French  servant 
has  devalis€  your  premises  and  got  caught.  Excu- 
sez,  says  the  sergent-de-ville,  as  he  politely  relieves 
nim  of  his  upper  garments  and  displays  his  bust  in 
the  full  daylight.  Good  shoulders  enough,  — a 
little  marked,  — traces  of  small-pox,  perhaps,  — but 

white Crac  ! from  the  sergent-de-ville’ s broad 

palm  on  the  white  shoulder ! Now  look  ! Vogue 
ia galerel  Out  comes  the  big  red  V,  — mark  of  the 
hot  iron  ; — he  had  blistered  it  out  pretty  nearly. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


127 


— bad  n’t  he  ? — the  old  rascal  VOLE  UR,  branded 
in  "bo  galleys  at  Marseilles  ! [Don’t ! What  if  he 
ha?  got  something  like  this  ? — nobody  supposes  I 
ir  vented  such  a story.] 

My  man  John,  who  used  to  drive  two  of  those 
six  equine  females  which  I told  you  I had  owned, 

— for,  look  you,  my  friends,  simple  though  I stand 
here,  I am  one  that  has  been  driven  in  his  “ ker- 
ridge,”  — not  using  that  term,  as  liberal  shepherds 
do,  for  any  battered  old  shabby-genteel  go-cart 
which  has  more  than  one  wheel,  but  meaning 
thereby  a four-wheeled  vehicle  with  a pole,  — my 
man  John,  I say,  was  a retired  soldier.  He  retired 
unostentatiously,  as  many  of  Her  Majesty’s  modest 
servants  have  done  before  and  since.  John  told 
me,  that  when  an  officer  thinks  he  recognizes  one 
of  these  retiring  heroes,  and  would  know  if  he  has 
really  been  in  the  service,  that  he  may  restore  him, 
if  possible,  to  a grateful  country,  he  comes  suddenly 
upon  him,  and  says,  sharply,  “ Strap ! ” If  he  has 
ever  worn  the  shoulder-strap,  he  has  learned  the 
reprimand  for  its  ill  adjustment.  The  old  word  of 
command  flashes  through  his  muscles,  and  his  hand 
goes  up  in  an  instant  to  the  place  where  the  strap 
used  to  be. 

[I  was  all  the  time  preparing  for  my  grand  coup , 
you  understand  ; but  I saw  they  were  not  quite 
ready  for  it,  and  so  continued,  — always  in  illustra- 
tion of  the  general  principle  I had  laid  down.] 


128 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


Yes,  odd  things  come  out  in  ways  that  nobody 
thinks  of.  There  was  a legend  that,  when  the 
Danish  pirates  made  descents  upon  the  English 
coast,  they  caught  a few  Tartars  occasionally,  in 
the  shape  of  Saxons,  who  would  not  let  them  gv'i, 
— on  the  contrary,  insisted  on  their  staying,  and, 
to  make  sure  of  it,  treated  them  as  Apollo  treated 
Marsyas,  or  as  Bartholinus  has  treated  a fellow- 
creature  in  his  title-page,  and,  having  divested  them 
of  the  one  essential  and  perfectly  fitting  garment, 
indispensable  in  the  mildest  climates,  nailed  the 
same  on  the  church-door  as  we  do  the  banns  of 
marriage,  in  terrorem. 

[There  was  a laugh  at  this  among  some  of  the 
young  folks  ; but  as  I looked  at  our  landlady,  I 
saw  that  “ the  water  stood  in  her  eyes,”  as  it  did  in 
Christiana’s  when  the  interpreter  asked  her  about 
the  spider,  and  I fancied,  but  was  n’t  quite  sure  that 
the  schoolmistress  blushed,  as  Mercy  did  in  the 
same  conversation,  as  you  remember.] 

That  sounds  like  a cock-and  bull-story,  — said 
the  young  fellow  whom  they  call  John.  I ab- 
stained from  making  Hamlet’s  remark  to  Horatio, 
and  continued. 

Not  long  since,  the  church-wardens  were  repair- 
ing and  beautifying  an  old  Saxon  church  in  a 
certain  English  village,  and  among  other  things 
thought  the  doors  should  be  attended  to.  One  of 
them  particularly,  the  front-door,  looked  very  badly, 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


129 


crusted,  ms  it  were,  and  as  if  it  would  be  all  the  bet- 
ter for  scraping.  There  happened  to  be  a micro- 
scopisf  in  the  village  who  had  heard  the  old  pirate 
story,  and  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  examine  the 
crust  on  this  door.  There  was  no  mistake  about 
it;  it  was  a genuine  historical  document,  of  the 
Ziska  drum-head  pattern,  — a real  cutis  humana , 
stripped  from  some  old  Scandinavian  filibuster, 
and  the  legend  was  true. 

My  friend,  the  Professor,  settled  an  important 
historical  and  financial  question  once  by  the  aid 
of  an  exceedingly  minute  fragment  of  a similar 
document.  Behind  the  pane  of  plate-glass  which 
bore  his  name  and  title  burned  a modest  lamp, 
signifying  to  the  passers-by  that  at  all  hours  of  the 
night  the  slightest  favors  (or  fevers)  were  welcome. 
A youth  who  had  freely  partaken  of  the  cup  which 
cheers  and  likewise  inebriates,  following  a moth- 
like impulse  very  natural  under  the  circumstances, 
dashed  his  fist  at  the  light  and  quenched  the  meek 
luminary,  — breaking  through  the  plate-glass,  of 
course,  to  reach  it.  Now  I don’t  want  to  go  into 
minutice  at  table,  you  know,  but  a naked  hand  can 
no  more  go  through  a pane  of  thick  glass  with- 
out leaving  some  of  its  cuticle,  to  say  the  least, 
behind  it,  than  a butterfly  can  go  through  a sau- 
sage-machine without  looking  the  worse  for  it.  The 
Professor  gathered  up  the  fragments  of  glass,  and 
with  them  certain  very  minute  but  entirely  satisfac- 
9 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


1 30 

tory  documents  which  would  have  identified  and 
hanged  any  rogue  in  Christendom  who  had  parted 
with  them.  — The  historical  question,  Who  did  it? 
and  the  financial  question,  Who  paid  for  it  ? were 
both  settled  before  the  new  lamp  was  lighted  the 
qext  evening. 

You  see,  my  friends,  what  immense  conclusions, 
touching  our  lives,  our  fortunes,  and  our  sacred 
honor,  may  be  reached  by  means  of  very  insignifi- 
cant premises.  This  is  eminently  true  of  manners 
and  forms  of  speech ; a movement  or  a phrase  often 
tells  you  all  you  want  to  know  about  a person. 
Thus,  “ How  ’s  your  health  ? ” (commonly  pro- 
nounced haulth)  — instead  of,  How  do  you  do  ? or, 
How  are  you  ? Or  calling  your  little  dark  entry  a 
“ hall,”  and  your  old  rickety  one-horse  wagon  a 
“ kerridge.”  Or  telling  a person  who  has  been  try- 
ing to  please  you  that  he  has  given  you  pretty  good 
“ sahtisfahction.”  Or  saying  that  you  “ remember 
of”  such  a thing,  or  that  you  have  been  “stoppin’  ” 
at  Deacon  Somebody’s,  — and  other  such  expres- 
sions. One  of  my  friends  had  a little  marble  statu- 
ette of  Cupid,  in  the  parlor  of  his  country-house,  — 
bow,  arrows,  wings,  and  all  complete.  A visitor, 
indigenous  to  the  region,  looking  pensively  at  the 
figure,  asked  the  lady  of  the  house  “ if  that  was  a 
statoo  of  her  deceased  infant  ? ” What  a delicious, 
though  somewhat  voluminous  biography,  social, 
educational,  and  aesthetic  in  that  brief  question! 


F THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 


*3* 

e observe  with  what  Machiavellian  astute- 
inuggled  in  the  particular  offence  which  it 
iy  object  to  hold  up  to  my  fellow-boarders, 
it  too  personal  an  attack  on  the  individual 
jse  door  it  lay.] 

at  was  an  exceedingly  dull  person  who  made 
remark,  Ex  pede  Herculem.  He  might  as  well 
*ve  said,  “ From  a peck  of  apples  you  may  judge 
the  barrel.”  Ex  pede,  to  be  sure ! Read,  in- 
ad,  Ex  ungue  minimi  digiti  pedis,  Herculem,  ejus- 
e patrem,  matrem,  avos  et  proavos , filios,  nepotes  et 
ronepotes  ! Talk  to  me  about  your  dos  7 rod  otgS  ! 
Tell  me  about  Cuvier’s  getting  up  a megatherium 
rom  a tooth,  or  Agassiz’s  drawing  a portrait  of  an 
indiscovered  fish  from  a single  scale  ! As  the  “ 0 ” 
•evealed  Giotto,  — as  the  one  word  “ moi  ” betrayed 
he  Stratford-atte-Bowe-taught  Anglais,  — so  all  a 
\an’s  antecedents  and  possibilities  are  summed  up 
a single  utterance  which  gives  at  once  the  gauge 
o\  his  education  and  his  mental  organization. 

Possibilities,  sir  ? — said  the  divinity-student ; 
can’t  a man  who  says  Haow  ? arrive  at  distinction  ? 

Sir,  — I replied,  — in  a republic  all  things  are 
possible.  But  the  man  with  a future  has  almost  of 
necessity  sense  enough  to  see  that  any  odious  trick 
of  speech  or  manners  must  be  got  rid  of.  Does  n’t 
Sydney  Smith  say  that  a public  man  in  England 
never  gets  over  a false  quantity  uttered  in  early 
life  ? Our  public  men  are  in  little  danger  of  this 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


132 

fatal  misstep,  as  few  of  them  are  in  the 
introducing  Latin  into  their  speeches,  — k 
and  sufficient  reasons.  But  they  are  bou 
speak  decent  English,  — unless,  indeed,  tht 
rough  old  campaigners,  like  General  Jacks 
General  Taylor ; in  which  case,  a few  seal 
Priscian’s  head  are  pardoned  to  old  fellows  w 
have  quite  as  many  on  their  own,  and  a const 
uency  of  thirty  empires  is  not  at  all  particul 
provided  they  do  not  swear  in  their  President 
Messages. 

However,  it  is  not  for  me  to  talk.  I have  mad 
mistakes  enough  in  conversation  and  print.  I neve 
find  them  out  until  they  are  stereotyped,  and  thei 
I think  they  rarely  escape  me.  I have  no  doubt  I 
shall  make  half  a dozen  slips  before  this  breakfast 
is  over,  and  remember  them  all  before  another 
How  one  does  tremble  with  rage  at  his  own  ir 
tense  momentary  stupidity  about  things  he  knov 
perfectly  well,  and  to  think  how  he  lays  himself 
open  to  the  impertinences  of  the  captatores  verborum , 
those  useful  but  humble  scavengers  of  the  language, 
whose  business  it  is  to  pick  up  what  might  offend 
or  injure,  and  remove  it,  hugging  and  feeding  on 
it  as  they  go!  I don’t  want  to  speak  too  slight- 
ingly of  these  verbal  critics ; — how  can  I,  who  am 
so  fond  of  talking  about  errors  and  vulgarisms  of 
speech  ? Only  there  is  a difference  between  those 
clerical  blunders  which  almost  every  man  commits, 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  133 

knowing  better,  and  that  habitual  grossness  or 
meanness  of  speech  which  is  unendurable  to  edu- 
cated persons,  from  anybody  that  wears  silk  or 
broadcloth. 

[I  write  down  the  above  remarks  this  morning, 
January  26th,  making  this  record  of  the  date  that 
nobody  may  think  it  was  written  in  wrath,  on  ac- 
count of  any  particular  grievance  suffered  from  the 
invasion  of  any  individual  scarabceus  grammaticus. , 

1 wonder  if  anybody  ever  finds  fault  with 

anything  I say  at  this  table  when  it  is  repeated  ? 
I hope  they  do,  I am  sure.  I should  be  very  cer- 
tain that  I said  nothing  of  much  significance,  if 
they  did  not. 

Did  you  never,  in  walking  in  the  fields,  come 
across  a large  flat  stone,  which  had  lain,  nobody 
knows  how  long,  just  where  you  found  it,  with  the 
grass  forming  a little  hedge,  as  it  were,  all  round 
it,  close  to  its  edges,  — and  have  you  not,  in  obe- 
dience to  a kind  of  feeling  that  told  you  it  had 
been  lying  there  long  enough,  insinuated  your  stick 
or  your  foot  or  your  fingers  under  its  edge  and 
turned  it  over  as  a housewife  turns  a cake,  when 
she  says  to  herself,  “ It  *s  done  brown  enough  by 
this  time  ” ? What  an  odd  revelation,  and  what 
an  unforeseen  and  unpleasant  surprise  to  a small 
community,  the  very  existence  of  which  you  had 
Tiot  suspected,  until  the  sudden  dismay  and  scatter- 
ing among  its  members  produced  by  your  turn- 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


1 34 

ing  the  old  stone  over!  Blades  of  grass  flattened 
down,  colorless,  matted  together,  as  if  they  had  been 
bleached  and  ironed ; hideous  crawling  creatures, 
some  of  them  coleopterous  or  horny-shelled,  — 
turtle-bugs  one  wants  to  call  them ; some  of  them 
softer,  but  cunningly  spread  out  and  compressed 
like  Lepine  watches  (Nature  never  loses  a crack 
or  a crevice,  mind  you,  or  a joint  in  a tavern  bed- 
stead, but  she  always  has  one  of  her  flat-pattern 
live  timekeepers  to  slide  into  it) ; black,  glossy 
crickets,  with  their  long  filaments  sticking  out  like 
the  whips  of  four-horse  stage-coaches ; motionless, 
slug-like  creatures,  young  larvae,  perhaps  more  hor- 
rible in  their  pulpy  stillness  than  even  in  the  infernal 
wriggle  of  maturity!  But  no  sooner  is  the  stone 
turned  and  the  wholesome  light  of  day  let  upon 
this  compressed  and  blinded  community  of  creep- 
ing things,  than  all  of  them  which  enjoy  the  luxury 
of  legs  — and  some  of  them  have  a good  many  — 
rush  round  wildly,  butting  each  other  and  every- 
thing in  their  way,  and  end  in  a general  stampede 
for  underground  retreats  from  the  region  poisoned 
by  sunshine.  Next  year  you  will  find  the  grass 
growing  tall  and  green  where  the  stone  lay ; the 
ground-bird  builds  her  nest  where  the  beetle  had 
his  hole ; the  dandelion  and  the  buttercup  are  grow- 
ing there,  and  the  broad  fans  of  insect-angels  open 
and  shut  over  their  golden  disks,  as  the  rhythmic 
waves  of  blissful  consciousness  pulsate  through 
their  glorified  being. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  i35 

~ The  young  fellow  whom  they  call  John 

saw  tit  to  say,  in  his  very  familiar  way,  — at 
which  I do  not  choose  to  take  offence,  but  which 
1 sometimes  think  it  necessary  to  repress,  — 
that  I was  coming  it  rather  strong  on  the  butter- 
flies. 

No,  I replied  ; there  is  meaning  in  each  of  those 
images,  — the  butterfly  as  well  as  the  others.  The 
stone  is  ancient  error.  The  grass  is  human  nature 
borne  down  and  bleached  of  all  its  color  by  it.  The 
shapes  which  are  found  beneath  are  the  crafty  be- 
ings that  thrive  in  darkness,  and  the  weaker  organ- 
isms kept  helpless  by  it.  He  who  turns  the  stone 
over  is  whosoever  puts  the  staff  of  truth  to  the  old 
lying  incubus,  no  matter  whether  he  do  it  with  a 
serious  face  or  a laughing  one  The  next  year 
stands  for  the  coming  time.  Then  shall  the  na- 
ture which  had  lain  blanched  and  broken  rise  in 
its  full  stature  and  native  hues  in  the  sunshine. 
Then  shall  God’s  minstrels  build  their  nests  in 
the  hearts  of  a new-born  humanity.  Then  shall 
beauty — Divinity  taking  outlines  and  color  — 
light  upon  the  souls  of  men  as  the  butterfly, 
image  of  the  beatified  spirit  rising  from  the  dust, 
soars  from  the  shell  that  held  a poor  grub,  which 
would  never  have  found  wings,  had  not  the  stone 
been  lifted. 

You  never  need  think  you  can  turn  over  any 
old  falsehood  without  a terrible  squirming  and 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


*36 

scattering  of  the  horrid  little  population  that 
dwells  under  it. 

Every  real  thought  on  every  real  subject 

knocks  the  wind  out  of  somebody  or  other.  As 
soon  as  his  breath  comes  back,  he  very  probably 
begins  to  expend  it  in  hard  words.  These  are 
the  best  evidence  a man  can  have  that  he  has  said 
something  it  was  time  to  say.  Dr.  Johnson  was 
disappointed  in  the  effect  of  one  of  his  pamphlets. 
“ I think  I have  not  been  attacked  enough  for  it,” 
he  said  ; — “ attack  is  the  reaction  ; I never  think 
I have  hit  hard  unless  it  rebounds.” 

If  a fellow  attacked  my  opinions  in  print, 

would  I reply  ? Not  I.  Do  you  think  I don’t 
understand  what  my  friend,  the  Professor,  long 
ago  called  the  hydrostatic  paradox  of  controversy  ? 

Don’t  know  what  that  means7  — Well,  I will 
tell  you.  You  know,  that,  if  you  had  a bent  tube, 
one  arm  of  which  was  of  the  size  of  a pipe-stem, 
end  the  other  big  enough  to  hold  the  ocean,  water 
would  stand  at  the  same  height  in  one  as  in  the 
other.  Controversy  equalizes  fools  and  wise  men 
in  the  same  way,  — and  the  fools  know  it. 

No,  but  I often  read  what  they  say  about 

other  people.  There  are  about  a dozen  phrases 
which  all  come  tumbling  along  together,  like  the 
tongs,  and  the  shovel,  and  the  poker,  and  the 
brush,  and  the  bellows,  in  one  of  those  domestic 
avalanches  that  everybody  knows.  If  you  get 
one,  you  get  the  whole  lot. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 137 

What  are  they?  — O,  that  depends  a good 
ileal  on  latitude  and  longitude.  Epithets  follow 
the  isothermal  lines  pretty  accurately.  Grouping 
them  in  two  families,  one  finds  himself  a clever, 
genial,  witty,  wise,  brilliant,  sparkling,  thoughtful, 
distinguished,  celebrated,  illustrious  scholar  and 
perfect  gentleman,  and  first  writer  of  the  age ; or 
a dull,  foolish,  wicked,  pert,  shallow,  ignorant, 
insolent,  traitorous,  black-hearted  outcast,  and 
disgrace  to  civilization. 

What  do  I think  determines  the  set  of  phrases 
a man  gets  ? — Well,  I should  say  a set  of  in- 
fluences something  like  these: — 1st.  Relation- 
ships, political,  religious,  social,  domestic.  2d. 
Oysters,  in  the  form  of  suppers  given  to  gentle- 
men connected  with  criticism.  I believe  in  the 
school,  the  college,  and  the  clergy ; but  my  sover- 
eign logic,  for  regulating  public  opinion  — which 
means  commonly  the  opinion  of  half  a dozen  of 
the  critical  gentry  — is  the  following  Major  propo- 
sition. Oysters  au  naturel.  Minor  proposition.  The 

same  “ scalloped.”  Conclusion.  That (here 

insert  entertainer’s  name)  is  clever,  witty,  wise, 
brilliant,  — and  the  rest. 

No,  it  is  n’t  exactly  bribery.  One  man 

has  oysters,  and  another  epithets.  It  is  an  ex- 
change of  hospitalities  ; one  gives  a “ spread  ” on 
linen,  and  the  other  on  paper,  — that  is  all.  Don’t 
you  think  you  and  I should  be  apt  to  do  just 


138  the  autocrat 

so,  if  we  were  in  the  critical  line?  I am  sure  I 
could  n’t  resist  the  softening  influences  of  hospi- 
tality. I don’t  like  to  dine  out,  you  know,  — I 
dine  so  well  at  our  own  table,  [our  landlady  looked 
radiant,]  and  the  company  is  so  pleasant  [a  rus- 
tling movement  of  satisfaction  among  the  board- 
ers] ; but  if  I did  partake  of  a man’s  salt,  with 
such  additions  as  that  article  of  food  requires  to 
make  it  palatable,  I could  never  abuse  him,  and  if 
I had  to  speak  of  him,  I suppose  I should  hang 
my  set  of  jingling  epithets  round  him  like  a string 
of  sleigh-bells.  Good  feeling  helps  society  to  make 
liars  of  most  of  us,  — not  absolute  liars,  but  such 
careless  handlers  of  truth  that  its  sharp  corners 
get  terribly  rounded.  I love  truth  as  chiefest 
among  the  virtues ; I trust  it  runs  in  my  blood  ; 
but  I would  never  be  a critic,  because  I know  I 
could  not  always  tell  it.  I might  write  a criticism 
of  a book  that  happened  to  please  me;  that  is 
another  matter. 

Listen,  Benjamin  Franklin  ! This  is  for 

you,  and  such  others  of  tender  age  as  you  may 
tell  it  to. 

When  we  are  as  yet  small  children,  long  before 
the  time  when  those  two  grown  ladies  offer  us  the 
choice  of  Hercules,  there  comes  up  to  us  a youth- 
ful angel,  holding  in  his  right  hand  cubes  like  dice, 
and  in  his  left  spheres  like  marbles.  The  cubes 
are  of  stainless  ivory,  and  on  each  is  written  in 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 


1 39 

letters  of  gold  — Truth.  The  spheres  are  veined 
and  streaked  and  spotted  beneath,  with  a dark 
crimson  flush  above,  where  the  light  falls  on  them, 
and  in  a certain  aspect  you  can  make  out  upon 
every  one  of  them  the  three  letters  L,  I,  E.  The 
child  to  whom  they  are  offered  very  probably 
clutches  at  both.  The  spheres  are  the  most  con- 
venient things  in  the  world ; they  roll  with  the 
least  possible  impulse  just  where  the  child  would 
have  them.  The  cubes  will  not  roll  at  all ; they 
have  a great  talent  for  standing  still,  and  always 
keep  right  side  up.  But  very  soon  the  young 
philosopher  finds  that  things  which  roll  so  easily 
are  very  apt  to  roll  into  the  wrong  corner,  and 
to  get  out  of  his  way  when  he  most  wants  them, 
while  he  always  knows  where  to  find  the  others, 
which  stay  where  they  are  left.  Thus  he  learns 
— thus  we  learn  — to  drop  the  streaked  and  spec- 
kled globes  of  falsehood  and  to  hold  fast  the  white 
angular  blocks  of  truth.  But  tfien  comes  Timid- 
ity, and  after  her  Good-nature,  and  last  of  all 
Polite-behavior,  all  insisting  that  truth  must  roll , 
or  nobody  can  do  anything  with  it ; and  so  the 
first  with  her  coarse  rasp,  and  the  second  with  her 
broad  file,  and  the  third  with  her  silken  sleeve,  do 
so  round  off  and  smooth  and  polish  the  snow* 
white  cubes  of  truth,  that,  when  they  have  got  a 
little  dingy  by  use,  it  becomes  hard  to  tell  them 
from  the  rolling  spheres  of  falsehood. 


140  THE  AUTOCRAT 

The  schoolmistress  was  polite  enough  to  say 
that  she  was  pleased  with  this,  and  that  she  would 
read  it  to  her  little  flock  the  next  day.  But  she 
should  tell  the  children,  she  said,  that  there  were 
better  reasons  for  truth  than  could  be  found  in 
mere  experience  of  its  convenience  and  the  incon- 
venience of  lying. 

Yes,  — I said,  — but  education  always  begins 
through  the  senses,  and  works  up  to  the  idea  of 
absolute  right  and  wrong.  The  first  thing  the 
child  has  to  learn  about  this  matter  is,  that  lying 
is  unprofitable,  — afterwards,  that  it  is  against 
the  peace  and  dignity  of  the  universe. 

Do  I think  that  the  particular  form  of 

lying  often  seen  in  newspapers,  under  the  title, 
“ From  our  Foreign  Correspondent,”  does  any 
harm  ? — Why,  no,  — I don’t  know  that  it  does. 
I suppose  it  does  n’t  really  deceive  people  any 
more  than  the  “ Arabian  Nights  ” or  “ Gulliver’s 
Travels  ” do.  Sometimes  the  writers  compile  too 
carelessly,  though,  and  mix  up  facts  out  of  geog- 
raphies, and  stories  out  of  the  penny  papers,  so 
as  to  mislead  those  who  are  desirous  of  infon 
mation.  I cut  a piece  out  of  one  of  the  pa- 
pers,  the  other  day,  which  contains  a number 
of  improbabilities,  and,  I suspect,  misstatements. 
I will  send  up  and  get  it  for  you,  if  you 

would  like  to  hear  it. Ah,  this  is  it;  it  is 

Headed 


OF  TTLE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 141 

“ Our  Sumatra  Correspondence. 

“ This  island  is  now  the  property  of  the  Stam- 
ford family,  — having  been  won,  it  is  said,  in  a 
raffle,  by  Sir Stamford,  during  the  stock- 

gambling mania  of  the  South-Sea  Scheme.  The 
history  of  this  gentleman  may  be  found  in  an  in- 
teresting series  of  questions  (unfortunately  not  yet 
answered)  contained  in  the  ‘ Notes  and  Queries.* 
This  island  is  entirely  surrounded  by  the  ocean, 
which  here  contains  a large  amount  of  saline  sub- 
stance, crystallizing  in  cubes  remarkable  for  their 
symmetry,  and  frequently  displays  on  its  surface, 
during  calm  weather,  the  rainbow  tints  of  the 
celebrated  South-Sea  bubbles.  The  summers  are 
oppressively  hot,  and  the  winters  very  probably 
cold ; but  this  fact  cannot  be  ascertained  precisely, 
as,  for  some  peculiar  reason,  the  mercury  in  these 
latitudes  never  shrinks,  as  in  more  northern  re- 
gions, and  thus  the  thermometer  is  rendered  use- 
less in  winter. 

“ The  principal  vegetable  productions  of  the 
island  are  the  pepper-tree  and  the  bread-fruit  tree. 
Pepper  being  very  abundantly  produced,  a benev- 
olent society  was  organized  in  London  during  the 
last  century  for  supplying  the  natives  with  vine- 
gar and  oysters,  as  an  addition  to  that  delightful 
condiment.  [Note  received  from  Dr.  D.  P.]  It 
is  said,  however,  that,  as  the  oysters  were  of  the 


142 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


kind  called  natives  in  England,  the  natives  of 
Sumatra,  in  obedience  to  a natural  instinct,  re- 
fused to  touch  them,  and  confined  themselves  en- 
tirely to  the  crew  of  the  vessel  in  which  they  were 
brought  over.  This  information  was  received 
from  one  of  the  oldest  inhabitants,  a native  him- 
self, and  exceedingly  fond  of  missionaries.  He  is 
said  also  to  be  ve«»  skilful  in  the  cuisine  peculiar 
to  the  island. 

“ During  the  season  of  gathering  the  pepper, 
the  persons  employed  are  subject  to  various  in- 
commodities, the  chief  of  which  is  violent  and 
long-continued  sternutation,  or  sneezing.  Such 
is  the  vehemence  of  these  attacks,  that  the  unfor- 
tunate subjects  of  them  are  often  driven  backwards 
/or  great  distances  at  immense  speed,  on  the  well- 
imown  principle  of  the  geolipile.  Not  being  able 
co  see  where  they  are  going,  these  poor  creatures 
dash  themselves  to  pieces  against  the  rocks  or  are 
precipitated  over  the  cliffs,  and  thus  many  valu- 
able lives  are  lost  annually.  As,  during  the  whole 
pepper-harvest,  they  feed  exclusively  on  this  stim- 
dlant,  they  become  exceedingly  irritable.  The 
smallest  injury  is  resented  with  ungovernable  rage. 
A young  man  suffering  from  the  pepper-fever , as 
it  is  called,  cudgelled  another  most  severely  for 
appropriating  a superannuated  relative  of  trifling 
value,  and  was  only  pacified  by  having  a present 
made  him  of  a pig  of  that  peculiar  species  of 


OF  THE  BREAK  FAS  T-  TABLE. 


143 

swine  called  tlie  Peccavi  by  the  Catholic  Jews, 
who,  it  is  well  known,  abstain  from  swine’s  flesh 
in  imitation  of  the  Mahometan  Buddhists. 

“ The  bread-tree  grows  abundantly.  Its  branch- 
es are  well  known  to  Europe  and  America  under 
the  familiar  name  of  maccaroni.  The  smaller 
twigs  are  called  vermicelli . They  have  a decided 
animal  flavor,  as  may  be  observed  in  the  soups 
containing  them.  Maccaroni,  being  tubular,  is 
the  favorite  habitat  of  a very  dangerous  insect, 
which  is  rendered  peculiarly  ferocious  by  being 
boiled.  The  government  of  the  island,  therefore, 
never  allows  a stick  of  it  to  be  exported  without 
being  accompanied  by  a piston  with  which  its 
cavity  may  at  any  time  be  thoroughly  swTept  out. 
These  are  commonly  lost  or  stolen  before  the 
maccaroni  arrives  among  us.  It  therefore  always 
contains  many  of  these  insects,  which,  however, 
generally  die  of  old  age  in  the  shops,  so  that  acci- 
dents from  this  source  are  comparatively  rare. 

“ The  fruit  of  the  bread-tree  consists  principally 
of  hot  rolls.  The  buttered-muffin  variety  is  sup- 
posed to  be  a hybrid  with  the  cocoa-nut  palm, 
tin  cream  found  on  the  milk  of  the  cocoa-nut  ex- 
uuing  from  the  hybrid  in  the  shape  of  butter,  just 
as  the  ripe  fruit  is  splitting,  so  as  to  fit  it  for 
the  tea-table,  wrhere  it  is  commonly  served  up  with 
cold ” 

There,  — I don’t  want  to  read  any  more 


144 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


of  it.  You  see  that  many  of  these  statements  are 
highly  improbable.  — No,  I shall  not  mention  the 
paper.  — No,  neither  of  them  wrote  it,  though  it 
reminds  me  of  the  style  of  these  popular  writers. 
I think  the  fellow  who  wrote  it  must  have  been 
reading  some  of  their  stories,  and  got  them  mixed 
up  with  his  history  and  geography.  I don’t  sup- 
pose he  lies  ; — he  sells  it  to  the  editor,  who  knows 
how  many  squares  off  “ Sumatra”  is.  The  edi- 
tor, who  sells  it  to  the  public By  the  way, 

the  papers  have  been  very  civil  — have  n’t  they  ? — 
to  the  — the  — what  d’  ye  call  it 2 — “ Northern 
Magazine,”  — is  n’t  it  ? — got  up  by  some  of  those 
Come-outers,  down  East,  as  an  organ  for  their 
local  peculiarities. 

The  Professor  has  been  to  see  me.  Came 

in,  glorious,  at  about  twelve  o’clock,  last  night. 
Said  he  had  been  with  “ the  boys.”  On  inquiry, 
found  that  “ the  boys  ” were  certain  baldish  and 
grayish  old  gentlemen  that  one  sees  or  hears  of 
in  various  important  stations  of  society.  The 
Professor  is  one  of  the  same  set,  but  he  always 
talks  as  if  he  had  been  out  of  college  about  ten 

years,  whereas [Each  of  those 

dots  was  a little  nod,  which  the  company  under- 
stood, as  the  reader  will,  no  doubt.]  He  calls 
them  sometimes  “ the  boys,”  and  sometimes  “ the 
old  fellows.”  Call  him  by  the  latter  title,  and  see 
how  he  likes  it.  — Well,  he  came  in  last  night 


Ob  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


*45 

glorious,  as  I was  saying.  Of  course  I don’t 
mean  vinously  exalted ; he  drinks  little  wine  on 
such  occasions,  and  is  well  known  to  all  the  Peters 
and  Patricks  as  the  gentleman  who  always  has 
indefinite  quantities  of  black  tea  to  kill  any  extra 
glass  of  red  claret  he  may  have  swallowed.  But 
the  Professor  says  he  always  gets  tipsy  on  old 
memories  at  these  gatherings.  He  was,  I forget 
how  many  years  old  when  he  went  to  the  meet- 
ing; just  turned  of  twenty  now,  — he  said.  He 
made  various  youthful  proposals  to  me,  including 
a duet  under  the  landlady’s  daughter’s  window. 
He  had  just  learned  a trick,  he  said,  of  one  of 
“ the  boys,”  of  getting  a splendid  bass  out  of  a 
door-panel  by  rubbing  it  with  the  palm  of  his 
hand.  Offered  to  sing  “ The  sky  is  bright,”  ac- 
companying himself  on  the  front-door,  if  I would 
go  down  and  help  in  the  chorus.  Said  there 
never  was  such  a set  of  fellows  as  the  old  boys 
of  the  set  he  has  been  with.  Judges,  mayors, 
Congressmen,  Mr.  Speakers,  leaders  in  science, 
clergymen  better  than  famous,  and  famous  too, 
poets  by  the  half-dozen,  singers  with  voices  like 
angels,  financiers,  wits,  three  of  the  best  laughers 
m the  Commonwealth,  engineers,  agriculturists,  — 
all  forms  of  talent  and  knowledge  he  pretended 
were  represented  in  that  meeting.  Then  he  be- 
gan to  quote  Byron  about  Santa  Croce,  and  main- 
tained that  he  could  “ furnish  out  creation  ” in  all 


io 


146  THE  AUTOCRAT 

its  details  from  that  set  of  his.  He  would  like  to 
have  the  whole  boodle  of  them,  (I  remonstrated 
against  this  word,  but  the  Professor  said  it  was  a 
diabolish  good  word,  and  he  would  have  no  other,) 
with  their  wives  and  children,  shipwrecked  on  a 
remote  island,  just  to  see  how  splendidly  they 
would  reorganize  soeiety.  They  could  build  a 
city,  — they  have  done  it ; make  constitutions  and 
laws;  establish  churches  and  lyceums  ; teach  and 
practise  the  healing  art ; instruct  in  every  depart- 
ment ; found  observatories ; create  commerce  and 
manufactures;  write  songs  and  hymns,  and  sing 
'em,  and  make  instruments  to  accompany  the 
songs  with ; lastly,  publish  a journal  almost  as 
good  as  the  “ Northern  Magazine,"  edited  by  the 
Come-outers.  There  was  nothing  they  were  not 
up  to,  from  a christening  to  a hanging ; the  last, 
to  be  sure,  could  never  be  called  for,  unless  some 
stranger  got  in  among  them. 

I let  the  Professor  talk  as  long  as  he  liked  ; 

it  did  n't  make  much  difference  to  me  whether  it 
was  all  truth,  or  partly  made  up  of  pale  Sherry 
and  similar  elements.  All  at  once  he  jumped  up 
and  said,  — 

Don’t  you  want  to  hear  what  I just  read  to  the 
boys  ? 

I have  had  questions  of  a similar  character 
asked  me  before,  occasionally.  A man  of  iron 
mould  might  perhaps  say,  No  ! I am  not  a man 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  i47 

of  iron  mould,  and  said  that  I should  be  de- 
lighted. 

The  Professor  then  read  — with  that  slightly 
sing-song  cadence  which  is  observed  to  be  com- 
mon in  poets  reading  their  own  verses  — the  fol- 
lowing stanzas ; holding  them  at  a focal  distance 
of  about  two  feet  and  a half,  with  an  occasional 
movement  bacTt  or  forward  for  better  adjustment, 
the  appearance  of  which  has  been  likened  by  some 
impertinent  young  folks  to  that  of  the  act  of  play- 
ing on  the  trombone.  His  eyesight  was  never 
better ; I have  his  word  for  it. 

MARE  RUBRUM. 

Flash  out  a stream  of  blood-red  wine  ! — 

For  I would  drink  to  other  days  5 
And  brighter  shall  their  memory  shine, 

Seen  flaming  through  its  crimson  blaze. 

The  roses  die,  the  summers  fade  j 
But  every  ghost  of  boyhood’s  dream 
By  Nature’s  magic  power  is  laid 
To  sleep  beneath  this  blood-red  stream. 

It  filled  the  purple  grapes  that  lay 
And  drank  the  splendors  of  the  sun 
Where  the  long  summer’s  cloudless  day 
Is  mirrored  in  the  broad  Garonne  ; 

It  pictures  still  the  bacchant  shapes 
That  saw  their  hoarded  sunlight  shed,  — 

The  maidens  dancing  on  the  grapes,  — 

Their  milk-white  ankles  splashed  with  red. 

Beneath  these  waves  of  crimson  lie, 

In  rosy  fetters  prisoned  fast, 

Those  flitting  shapes  that  never  die, 

The  swift-winged  visions  of  the  past. 


148 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


Kiss  but  the  crystal’s  mystic  rim, 

Each  shadow  rends  its  flowery  chain, 
Springs  in  a bubble  from  its  brim 
And  walks  the  chambers  of  the  brain. 

Poor  Beauty  ! time  and  fortune’s  wrong 
No  form  nor  feature  may  withstand,  — 
Thy  wrecks  are  scattered  all  along, 

Like  emptied  sea-shells  on  the  sand  ; — ■ 
Yet,  sprinkled  with  this  blushing  rain, 

The  dust  restores  each  blooming  girl, 

As  if  the  sea-shells  moved  again 
Their  glistening  lips  of  pink  and  pearl. 

Here  lies  the  home  of  school-boy  life, 

With  creaking  stair  and  wind-swept  hall, 
And,  scarred  by  many  a truant  knife, 

Our  old  initials  on  the  wall ; 

Here  rest  — their  keen  vibrations  mute  — 
The  shout  of  voices  known  so  well, 

Tht  ringing  laugh,  the  wailing  flute, 

The  chiding  of  the  sharp-tongued  bell. 

Here,  clad  in  burning  robes,  are  laid 
Life’s  blossomed  joys,  untimely  shed  •, 

And  here  those  cherished  forms  have  strayed 
We  miss  awhile,  and  call  them  dead. 

What  wizard  fills  the  maddening  glass  ? 

What  soil  the  enchanted  clusters  grew, 
That  buried  passions  wake  and  pass 
In  beaded  drops  of  fiery  dew  ? 

Nay,  take  the  cup  of  blood-red  wine,  — 

Our  hearts  can  boast  a warmer  glow, 

Filled  from  a vintage  more  divine,  — 

Calmed,  but  not  chilled  by  winter’s  snow  ! 
To-night  the  palest  wave  we  sip 
Rich  as  the  priceless  draught  shall  be 
That  wet  the  bride  of  Cana’s  lip,  — 

The  wedding  wine  of  Galilee  ! 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


149 


VI. 


h'J 


IN  has  many  tools,  but  a lie  is  the 
handle  which  fits  them~all. 

I think,  sir,  — said  the  divinity- 

student, — you  must  intend  that  for 
one  of  the  sayings  of  the  Seven  Wise  Men  of 
Boston  you  were  speaking  of  the  other  day. 

I thank  you,  my  young  friend,  — was  my  re- 
ply, — but  I must  say  something  better  than  that, 
before  I could  pretend  to  fill  out  the  number. 

The  schoolmistress  wanted  to  know  how 

many  of  these  sayings  there  were  on  record,  and 
what,  and  by  whom  said. 

Why,  let  us  see,  — there  is  that  one  of 

Benjamin  Franklin,  “ the  great  Bostonian,”  after 
whom  this  lad  was  named.  To  be  sure,  he  said  a 
great  many  wise  things,  — and  I don’t  feel  sure  he 
did  n’t  borrow  this,  — he  speaks  as  if  it  were  old. 
But  then  he  applied  it  so  neatly ! — 

“ He  that  has  once  done  you  a kindness  will  be 
more  ready  to  do  you  another  than  he  whom  you 
yourself  have  obliged.” 

Then  there  is  that  glorious  Epicurean  paradox, 
uttered  by  my  friend,  the  Historian,  in  one  of  his 
flashing  moments : — 


15° 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


“ Give  us  the  luxuries  of  life,  and  we  will  dis- 
pense with  its  necessaries.” 

To  these  must  certainly  be  added  that  other 
saying  of  one  of  the  wittiest  of  men  : — 

“ Good  Americans,  when  they  die,  go  to  Paris.” 

The  divinity-student  looked  grave  at  this, 

but  said  nothing* 

The  schoolmistress  spoke  out,  and  said  she 
did  n’t  think  the  wit  meant  any  irreverence.  It 
was  only  another  way  of  saying,  Paris  is  a heav- 
enly place  after  New  York  or  Boston. 

A j aunty-looking  person,  who  had  come  in  with 
the  young  fellow  they  call  John,  — evidently  a 
stranger,  — said  there  was  one  more  wise  man’s 
saying  that  he  had  heard  : it  was  about  our  place, 
but  he  did  n’t  know  who  said  it.  — A civil  curios- 
ity was  manifested  by  the  company  to  hear  the 
fourth  wise  saying.  I heard  him  distinctly  whis- 
pering to  the  young  fellow  who  brought  him  to 
dinner,  Shall  I tell  it  ? To  which  the  answer  was, 
Go  ahead!  — Well,  — he  said,  — this  is  what  I 
heard  * — 

“Boston  State-House  is  the  hub  of  the  solar 
system.  You  could  n’t  pry  that  out  of  a Boston 
man,  if  you  had  the  tire  of  all  creation  straight- 
ened out  for  a crowbar.” 

Sir,  — said  I, — I am  gratified  with  your  re- 
mark. It  expresses  with  pleasing  vivacity  that 
which  I have  sometimes  heard  uttered  with  ma- 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  i5i 

lignant  dulness.  The  satire  of  the  remark  is  es- 
sentially true  of  Boston,  — and  of  all  other  con- 
siderable — and  inconsiderable  — places  with  which 
I have  had  the  privilege  of  being  acquainted. 
Cockneys  think  London  is  the  only  place  in  the 
world.  Frenchmen  — you  remember  the  line 
about  Paris,  the  Court,  the  World,  etc.  — I recol- 
lect well,  by  the  way,  a sign  in  that  city  which 
ran  thus  : “ Hotel  de  fUnivers  et  des  Etats  Unis  ” ; 
and  as  Paris  is  the  universe  to  a Frenchman,  of 
course  the  United  States  are  outside  of  it.  — “ See 
Naples  and  then  die.”  — It  is  quite  as  bad  with 
smaller  places.  I have  been  about,  lecturing,  you 
know,  and  have  found  the  following  propositions 
to  hold  true  of  all  of  them. 

1.  The  axis  of  the  earth  sticks  out  visibly 
through  the  centre  of  each  and  every  town  or 
city. 

2.  If  more  than  fifty  years  have  passed  since  its 

foundation,  it  is  affectionately  styled  by  the  inhab- 
itants the  “ good  old  town  of” (whatever  its 

name  may  happen  to  be.) 

3.  Every  collection  of  its  inhabitants  that  comes 
together  to  listen  to  a stranger  is  invariably  d& 
clared  to  be  a “ remarkably  intelligent  audience.” 

4.  The  climate  of  the  place  is  particularly  fa- 
vorable to  longevity. 

5.  It  contains  several  persons  of  vast  talent  lit' 
tie  known  to  the  world.  (One  or  two  of  them. 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


152 

you  may  perhaps  chance  to  remember,  sent  short 
pieces  to  the  “ Pactolian  ” some  time  since,  which 
were  “ respectfully  declined.”) 

Boston  is  just  like  other  places  of  its  size;  — 
only  perhaps,  considering  its  excellent  fish-market, 
paid  fire-department,  superior  monthly  publica- 
tions, and  correct  habit  of  spelling  the  English 
language,  it  has  some  right  to  look  down  on  the 
mob  of  cities.  I ’ll  tell  you,  though,  if  you  want 
to  know  it,  what  is  the  real  offence  of  Boston.  It 
drains  a large  water-shed  of  its  intellect,  and  will 
not  itself  be  drained.  If  it  would  only  send  away 
its  first-rate  men,  instead  of  its  second-rate  ones, 
(no  offence  to  the  well-known  exceptions,  of  which 
we  are  always  proud,)  we  should  be  spared  such 
epigrammatic  remarks  as  that  which  the  gentle- 
man has  quoted.  There  can  never  be  a real  me- 
tropolis in  this  country,  until  the  biggest  centre 
can  drain  the  lesser  ones  of  their  talent  and  wealth. 
— I have  observed,  by  the  way,  that  the  people 
who  really  live  in  two  great  cities  are  by  no 
means  so  jealous  of  each  other,  as  are  those  of 
smaller  cities  situated  within  the  intellectual  basin, 
or  suction-range , of  one  large  one,  of  the  pretensions 
of  any  other.  Don’t  you  see  why  ? Because  their 
promising  young  author  and  rising  lawyer  and 
large  capitalist  have  been  drained  off  to  the  neigh- 
boring big  city,  — their  prettiest  girl  has  been  ex- 
ported to  the  same  market;  all  their  ambition 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  i53 

points  there,  and  all  their  thin  gilding  of  glory 
conies  from  there.  I hate  little  toad-eating  cities. 

Would  I be  so  good  as  to  specify  any  par- 
ticular example  ? — 0,  — an  example  ? Did  you 
ever  see  a bear-trap  ? Never  ? Well,  should  n't 
you  like  to  see  me  put  my  foot  into  one  ? With 
sentiments  of  the  highest  consideration  I musf 
beg  leave  to  be  excused. 

Besides,  some  of  the  smaller  cities  are  charm- 
ing. If  they  have  an  old  church  or  two,  a few 
stately  mansions  of  former  grandees,  here  and  there 
an  old  dwelling  with  the  second  story  projecting, 
(for  the  convenience  of  shooting  the  Indians  knock- 
ing at  the  front-door  with  their  tomahawks,)  — if 
they  have,  scattered  about,  those  mighty  square 
houses  built  something  more  than  half  a century 
ago,  and  standing  like  architectural  bowlders 
dropped  by  the  former  diluvium  of  wealth,  whose 
refluent  wave  has  left  them  as  its  monument,  — 
if  they  have  gardens  with  elbowed  apple-trees  that 
push  their  branches  over  the  high  board-fence  and 
drop  their  fruit  on  the  sidewalk,  — if  they  have  a 
little  grass  in  the  side-streets,  enough  to  betoken 
quiet  without  proclaiming  decay,  — I think  I could 
go  to  pieces,  after  my  life’s  work  were  done,  in  one 
of  those  tranquil  places,  as  sweetly  as  in  any  cra- 
dle that  an  old  man  may  be  rocked  to  sleep  in.  I 
dsit  such  spots  always  with  infinite  delight.  My 
fiend,  the  Poet,  says,  that  rapidly  growing  towns 


54 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


are  most  unfavorable  to  the  imaginative  and  re- 
flective faculties.  Let  a man  live  in  one  of  these 
old  quiet  places,  he  savs,  and  the  wine  of  his  soul, 
which  is  kept  thick  and  turbid  by  the  rattle  of  busy 
streets,  settles,  and,  as  you  hold  it  up,  you  may 
see  the  sun  through  it  by  day  and  the  stars  by 
night. 

Do  I think  that  the  little  villages  have  the 

conceit  of  the  great  towns  ? — I don’t  believe  there 
is  much  difference.  You  know  how  they  read 
Pope’s  line  in  the  smallest  town  in  our  State  of 
Massachusetts'?  — Well,  they  read  it 

“ All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  Hull  ! ” 

Every  person’s  feelings  have  a front-door 

and  a side-door  by  which  they  may  be  entered. 
The  front-door  is  on  the  street.  Some  keep  it  al- 
ways open ; some  keep  it  latched  ; some,  locked  ; 
some,  bolted,  — with  a chain  that  will  let  you  peep 
in,  but  not  get  in  ; and  some  nail  it  up,  so  that 
nothing  can  pass  its  threshold.  This  front-door 
leads  into  a passage  which  opens  into  an  anteroom, 
and  this  into  the  interior  apartments.  The  side- 
door  opens  at  once  into  the  sacred  chambers. 

There  is  almost  always  at  least  one  key  to  this 
side-door.  This  is  carried  for  years  hidden  in  a 
mother’s  bosom.  Fathers,  brothers,  sisters,  and 
friends,  often,  but  by  no  means  so  universally,  have 
duplicates  of  it.  The  wedding-ring  conveys  a right 
to  one  ; alas,  if  none  is  given  with  it ! 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  155 

If  nature  or  accident  has  put  one  of  these  keys 
into  the  hands  of  a person  who  has  the  torturing 
instinct,  I can  only  solemnly  pronounce  the  words 
that  Justice  utters  over  its  doomed  victim, — The 
Lord  have  mercy  on  your  soul ! You  will  probably 
go  mad  within  a reasonable  time,  — or,  if  you  are 
a man,  run  off  and  die  with  your  head  on  a curb- 
stone, in  Melbourne  or  San  Francisco,  — or,  if  you 
are  a woman,  quarrel  and  break  your  heart,  or 
turn  into  a pale,  jointed  petrifaction  that  moves 
about  as  if  it  were  alive,  or  play  some  real  life- 
tragedy  or  other. 

Be  very  careful  to  whom  you  trust  one  of  these 
keys  of  the  side-door.  The  fact  of  possessing  one 
renders  those  even  who  are  dear  to  you  very  terri- 
ble at  times.  You  can  keep  the  world  out  from 
your  front-door,  or  receive  visitors  only  when  you 
are  ready  for  them ; but  those  of  your  own  flesh 
and  blood,  or  of  certain  grades  of  intimacy,  can 
come  in  at  the  side-door,  if  they  will,  at  any  hour 
and  in  any  mood.  Some  of  them  have  a scale  of 
your  whole  nervous  system,  and  can  play  all  the 
gamut  of  your  sensibilities  in  semitones,  — touch- 
ing the  naked  nerve-pulps  as  a pianist  strikes  the 
keys  of  his  instrument.  I am  satisfied  that  there 
are  as  great  masters  of  this  nerve-playing  as  Vieux- 
temps  or  Thalberg  in  their  lines  of  performance. 
Married  life  is  the  school  in  which  the  most  ac 
somplished  artists  in  this  department  are  found. 


1 56  THE  AU'IOCRAT 

A delicate  woman  is  the  best  instrument ; she  has 
such  a magnificent  compass  of  sensibilities  ! From 
the  deep  inward  moan  which  follows  pressure  on 
the  great  nerves  of  right,  to  the  sharp  cry  as  the 
filaments  of  taste  are  struck  with  a crashing  sweep, 
is  a range  which  no  other  instrument  possesses. 
A few  exercises  on  it  daily  at  home  fit  a man  won- 
derfully for  his  habitual  labors,  and  refresh  him 
immensely  as  he  returns  from  them.  No  stranger 
can  get  a great  many  notes  of  torture  out  of  a hu- 
man soul ; it  takes  one  that  knows  it  well,  — parent, 
child,  brother,  sister,  intimate.  Be  very  careful  to 
whom  you  give  a side-door  key ; too  many  have 
them  already. 

You  remember  the  old  story  of  the  tender- 
hearted man,  who  placed  a frozen  viper  in  his  bo- 
som, and  was  stung  by  it  when  it  became  thawed  ? 
If  we  take  a cold-blooded  creature  into  our  bosom, 
better  that  it  should  sting  us  and  we  should  die 
than  that  its  chill  should  slowly  steal  into  our 
hearts  : warm  it  we  never  can  ! I have  seen  faces 
of  women  that  were  fair  to  look  upon,  yet  one 
could  see  that  the  icicles  were  forming  round  these 
women’s  hearts.  I knew  what  freezing  image  lay 
on  the  white  breasts  beneath  the  laces  ! 

A very  simple  intellectual  mechanism  answers 
the  necessities  of  friendship,  and  even  of  the  most 
intimate  relations  of  life.  If  a watch  tells  us  the 
hour  and  minute,  we  can  be  content  to  carry  it 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


'SI 

about  with  us  for  a lifetime,  though  it  has  no  sec* 
ond-hand  and  is  not  a repeater,  nor  a musical 
watch,  — though  it  is  not  enamelled  nor  jewelled, 
— in  short,  though  it  has  little  beyond  the  wheels 
required  for  a trustworthy  instrument,  added  to  a 
good  face  and  a pair  of  useful  hands.  The  more 
wheels  there  are  in  a watch  or  a brain,  the  more 
^rouble  they  are  to  take  care  of.  The  movements 
^f  exaltation  which  belong  to  genius  are  egotistic 
by  their  very  nature.  A calm,  clear  mind,  not 
subject  to  the  spasms  and  crises  which  are  so  often 
met  with  in  creative  or  intensely  perceptive  na- 
tures, is  the  best  basis  for  love  or  friendship.  — Ob- 
serve, I am  talking  about  minds.  I won’t  say,  the 
more  intellect,  the  less  capacity  for  loving ; for 
that  would  do  wrong  to  the  understanding  and 
reason  ; — but,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  brain 
often  runs  away  with  the  heart’s  best  blood,  which 
gives  the  world  a few  pages  of  wisdom  or  senti- 
ment or  poetry,  instead  of  making  one  other  heart 
happy,  I have  no  question. 

If  one’s  intimate  in  love  or  friendship  cannot  or 
does  not  share  all  one’s  intellectual  tastes  or  pur- 
suits, that  is  a small  matter.  Intellectual  com- 
panions can  be  found  easily  in  men  and  books. 
After  all,  if  we  think  of  it,  most  of  the  world’s 
loves  and  friendships  have  been  between  people 
that  could  not  read  nor  spell. 

But  to  radiate  the  heat  of  the  affections  into  a 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


158 

clod,  which  absorbs  all  that  is  poured  into  it,  but 
never  warms  beneath  the  sunshine  of  smiles  or  the 
pressure  of  hand  or  lip,  — this  is  the  great  martyr- 
dom of  sensitive  beings,  — most  of  all  in  that  per- 
petual auto  da  fe  where  young  womanhood  is  the 
sacrifice. 

You  noticed,  perhaps,  what  I just  said 

about  the  loves  and  friendships  of  illiterate  per- 
sons, — that  is,  of  the  human  race,  with  a few  ex- 
ceptions here  and  there.  I like  books,  — I was 
born  and  bred  among  them,  and  have  the  easy 
feeling,  when  I get  into  their  presence,  that  a stable- 
boy  has  among  horses.  I don't  think  I undervalue 
them  either  as  companions  or  as  instructors.  But 
I can't  help  remembering  that  the  world's  great 
men  have  not  commonly  been  great  scholars,  nor 
its  great  scholars  great  men.  The  Hebrew  pa- 
triarchs had  small  libraries,  I think,  if  any  ; yet 
they  represent  to  our  imaginations  a very  com- 
plete idea  of  manhood,  and,  I think,  if  we  could 
ask  in  Abraham  to  dine  with  us  men  of  letters 
next  Saturday,  we  should  feel  honored  by  his 
company. 

What  I wanted  to  say  about  books  is  this : that 
there  are  times  in  which  every  active  mind  feels 
itself  above  any  and  all  human  books. 

1 think  a man  must  have  a good  opinion 

of  himself,  sir,  — said  the  divinity-student,  — who 
should  feel  himself  above  Shakespeare  at  any  tima 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 159 

My  young  friend,  — I replied,  — the  man  who 
is  never  conscious  of  a state  of  feeling  or  of  intel- 
lectual effort  entirely  beyond  expression  by  any 
form  of  words  whatsoever  is  a mere  creature  of 
language.  I can  hardly  believe  thel’e  are  any  such 
men.  Why,  think  for  a moment  of  the  power  of 
music.  The  nerves  that  make  us  alive  to  it  spread 
out  (so  the  Professor  tells  me)  in  the  most  sensi- 
tive region  of  the  marrow  just  where  it  is  wid- 
ening to  run  upwards  into  the  hemispheres.  It 
has  its  seat  in  the  region  of  sense  rather  than  of 
thought.  Yet  it  produces  a continuous  and,  as  it 
were,  logical  sequence  of  emotional  and  intellectual 
changes  ; but  how  different  from  trains  of  thought 
proper ! how  entirely  beyond  the  reach  of  sym- 
bols ! — Think  of  human  passions  as  compared  with 
all  phrases ! Did  you  ever  hear  of  a man’s  grov 
ing  lean  by  the  reading  of  “ Romeo  and  Jur 
or  blowing  his  brains  out  because  Desderm 
maligned  ? There  are  a good  many  syrr’ 
that  are  more  expressive  than  word 
ber  a young  wife  who  had  to  part 
for  a time.  She  did  not  writ/ 
indeed,  she  was  a silent  per 
ly  said  a word  about  it  * 
a deep  orange  color  v 
people  in  this  wo’ 
for  their  pror 
waste  away 


i 6d 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


paroxysm  of  feeling  is  passing.  When  he  can 
read,  his  thought  has  slackened  its  hold. — You 
talk  about  reading  Shakespeare,  using  him  as  an 
expression  for  the  highest  intellect,  and  you  won- 
der that  any  common  person  should  be  so  presump- 
tuous as  to  suppose  his  thought  can  rise  above  the 
text  which  lies  before  him.  But  think  a moment. 
A child ’s  reading  of  Shakespeare  is  one  thing,  and 
Coleridge’s  or  Schlegel’s  reading  of  him  is  another. 
The  saturation-point  of  each  mind  differs  from  that 
of  every  other.  But  I think  it  is  as  true  for  the 
small  mind  which  can  only  take  up  a little  as  for 
the  great  one  which  takes  up  much,  that  the  sug- 
gested trains  of  thought  and  feeling  ought  always 
to  rise  above  — not  the  author,  but  the  reader’s 
mental  version  of  the  author,  whoever  he  may  be. 

I think  most  readers  of  Shakespeare  sometimes 
themselves  thrown  into  exalted  mental  condi- 
'ke  those  produced  by  music.  Then  they 
the  book,  to  pass  at  once  into  the  region 
\thout  words.  We  may  happen  to 
\s,  you  and  I,  and  probably  are, 
particular  reason  to  suppose 
get  glimpses  now  and  then 
Abilities,  where  we,  dull 
’^.st  circles  round  the 
'gences. 

ben  I feel  like 
le  ago,  — I 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 


1 6 1 

hate  the  very  sight  of  a book.  Sometimes  it 
becomes  almost  a physical  necessity  to  talk  oat 
what  is  in  the  mind,  before  putting  anything  else 
into  it.  It  is  very  bad  to  have  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings, which  were  meant  to  come  out  in  talk,  strike, 
in,  as  they  say  of  some  complaints  that  ought  to 
show  outwardly. 

I always  believed  in  life  rather  than  in  books. 
I suppose  every  day  of  earth,  with  its  hundred 
thousand  deaths  and  something  more  of  births,  — • 
with  its  loves  and  hates,  its  triumphs  and  defeats, 
its  pangs  and  blisses,  has  more  of  humanity  in  it 
than  all  the  books  that  were  ever  written,  put 
together.  I believe  the  flowers  growing  at  this 
moment  send  up  more  fragrance  to  heaven  than 
was  ever  exhaled  from  all  the  essences  ever  dis- 
tilled. 

Don't  I read  up  various  matters  to  talk 

about  at  this  table  or  elsewhere  ? — No,  that  is 
the  last  thing  I would  do.  I will  tell  you  my 
rule.  Talk  about  those  subjects  you  have  had 
long  in  your  mind,  and  listen  to  what  others  say 
about  subjects  you  have  studied  but  recently. 
Knowledge  and  timber  should  nT  be  much  used 
till  they  are  seasoned. 

Physiologists  and  metaphysicians  have 

tiad  their  attention  turned  a good  deal  of  late  to 
the  automatic  and  involuntary  actions  of  the  mind. 
Put  an  idea  into  your  intelligence  and  leave  it 


ii 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


1 62 

there  an  hour,  a day,  a year,  without  ever  having 
occasion  to  refer  to  it.  When,  at  last,  you  return 
to  it,  you  do  not  find  it  as  it  was  when  acquired. 
It  has  domiciliated  itself,  so  to  speak,  — become 
at  home,  — entered  into  relations  with  your  other 
thoughts,  and  integrated  itself  with  the  whole 
fabric  of  the  mind.  — Or  take  a simple  and  famil- 
iar example ; Dr.  Carpenter  has  adduced  it.  You 
forget  a name,  in  conversation,  — go  on  talking, 
without  making  any  effort  to  recall  it,  — and 
presently  the  mind  evolves  it  by  its  own  involun- 
tary and  unconscious  action,  while  you  were  pur- 
suing another  train  of  thought,  and  the  name 
rises  of  itself  to  your  lips. 

There  are  some  curious  observations  I should 
like  to  make  about  the  mental  machinery,  but  I 
think  we  are  getting  rather  didactic. 

I should  be  gratified,  if  Benjamin  Frank- 
lin would  let  me  know  something  of  his  progress 
in  the  French  language.  I rather  liked  that  ex- 
ercise he  read  us  the  other  day,  though  I must 
confess  I should  hardly  dare  to  translate  it,  for 
fear  some  people  in  a remote  city  where  I once 
lived  might  think  I was  drawing  their  portraits. 

Yes,  Paris  is  a famous  place  for  societies. 

I don’t  know  whether  the  piece  I mentioned  from 
the  French  author  was  intended  simply  as  Natu- 
ral History,  or  whether  there  was  not  a little 
malice  in  his  description.  At  any  rate,  when  J 


Ob  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 163 

gave  my  translation  to  B.  F.  to  turn  back  again 
into  French,  one  reason  was  that  I thought  it 
would  sound  a little  bald  in  English,  and  some 
people  might  think  it  was  meant  to  have  some 
local  bearing  or  other,  — which  the  author,  of 
course,  did  n’t  mean,  inasmuch  as  he  could  not  be 
acquainted  with  anything  on  this  side  of  the 
water. 

[The  above  remarks  were  addressed  to  the 
schoolmistress,  to  whom  I handed  the  paper  after 
looking  it  over.  The  divinity-student  came  and 
read  over  her  shoulder,  — very  curious,  apparently, 
but  his  eyes  wandered,  I thought.  Fancying  that 
her  breathing  was  somewhat  hurried  and  high,  or 
thoracic , as  my  friend,  the  Professor,  calls  it,  I 
watched  her  a little  more  closely.  — It  is  none  of 
my  business.  — After  all,  it  is  the  imponderables 
that  move  the  world,  — heat,  electricity,  love.  — 
Habet  ?] 

This  is  the  piece  that  Benjamin  Franklin  made 
into  boarding-school  French,  such  as  you  see  here ; 
don’t  expect  too  much ; — the  mistakes  give  a 
relish  to  it,  I think. 

Les  Societes  Poltphysiophilosophiques. 

Ces  Socidt^s  la  sont  une  Institution  pour  suppleer 
aux  besoins  d’esprit  et  de  cceur  de  ces  individus  qui 
ont  surv^cu  a leurs  Emotions  a l’egard  du  beau  sexe, 
et  qui  n’ont  pas  la  distraction  de  l’habitude  de  boire. 

Pour  devenir  membre  d’une  de  ces  Soci^tds,  on 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


164 

doit  avoir  le  moins  de  cheveux  possible.  S’il  y en 
reste  plusieurs  qui  resistent  aux  depilatoires  natu- 
relles  et  autres,  on  doit  avoir  quelques  connaissances, 
n’importe  dans  quel  genre.  Des  le  moment  qu’on 
ouvre  la  porte  de  la  Society,  on  a un  grand  intdret 
dans  toutes  les  choses  dont  on  ne  sait  rien.  Ainsi,  un 
microscopiste  ddnontre  un  nouveau  flexor  du  tarse 
d’un  melolontha  vulgaris.  Douze  savans  improvises, 
portans  des  besides,  et  qui  ne  connaissent  rien  des 
insectes,  si  ce  n’est  les  morsures  du  culex , se  pr4- 
cipitent  sur  l’instrument,  et  voient  — une  grande 
bulle  d’air,  dont  ils  s’emerveillent  avec  effusion.  Ce 
qui  est  un  spectade  plein  destruction  — pour  ceux 
qui  ne  sont  pas  de  ladite  Socidd  Tous  les  membres 
regardent  les  chimistes  en  particulier  avec  un  air 
d’intelligence  parfaite  pendant  qu’ils  prouvent  dans 
un  discours  d’une  demiheure  que  O6  N3  H5  C6,  etc., 
font  quelque  chose  qui  n’est  bonne  a rien,  mais  qui 
probablement  a une  odeur  tres  ddagreable,  selon 
l'liabitude  des  produits  chimiques.  Apres  cela  vient 
un  mathematicien  qui  vous  bourre  avec  des  a -|-  b et 
vous  rapporte  enfin  un  x -f-  y,  dont  vous  n’avez  pas 
besoin  et  qui  ne  change  nullement  vos  relations  avec 
la  vie.  Un  natural iste  vous  parle  des  formations 
spdiales  des  animaux  excessivement  inconnus,  dont 
vous  n’avez  jamais  soup^onnd  l’existence.  Ainsi  il 
vous  d^crit  les  folUcules  de  Vappendix  vermiformis 
d’un  dzigguetai.  Yous  ne  savez  pas  ce  que  c’esfc 
qu’un  follicule.  Vous  ne  savez  pas  ce  que  c’est 
qu’un  appendix  vermiformis.  Yous  n’avez  jamais 
entendu  parler  du  dzigguetai.  Ainsi  vous  gagnez 
toutes  ces  connaissances  a la  fois,  qui  s’attachent  a 
votre  esprit  comme  l’eau  adhere  aux  plumes  d’un 
canard.  On  connait  toutes  les  langues  ex  offltio  eo 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  165 

devenant  membre  d’une  de  ces  Soci^tes.  Ainsi 
quand  on  entend  lire  un  Essai  sur  les  dialectas, 
Tchutchiens,  on  comprend  toat  cela  de  suite,  et  s’in- 
struit  4norm£ment. 

11  y a deux  especes  d’individus  qu’on  trouve  tou- 
jours  aces  Soci&es:  1°  Le  membre  a questions;  2° 
Le  membre  a “ Bylaws.” 

La  question  est  une  sp£cialit£.  Celui  qui  en  fait 
metier  ne  fait  jamais  des  r^ponses.  La  question  est 
une  maniere  tres  commode  de  dire  les  choses  sui- 
vantes:  “ Me  voila!  Je  ne  suis  pas  fossil,  moi, — je 
respire  encore!  J’ai  des  idees,  — voyez  mon  intelli- 
gence! Vous  ne  croyiez  pas,  vous  autres,  que  je 
savais  quelque  chose  de  cela!  Ah,  nous  avons  un 
peu  de  sagacite,  voyez  vous ! Nous  ne  sommes  nul- 
lement  la  bete  qu’on  pense ! ” — Le  faiseur  de  ques- 
tions donne  peu  d' attention  aux  r^ponses  qu'on  fait;  ce 
n' est  pas  Id  dans  sa  speciality . 

Le  membre  a “ Bylaws”  est  le  bouchon  de  toutes 
les  Emotions  mousseuses  et  gen^reuses  qui  se  montrent 
dans  la  Socidt£.  C’est  un  empereur  manque,  — un 
tyran  a la  troisieme  trituration.  C’est  un  esprit  dur, 
born£,  exact,  grand  dans,  les  petitesses,  petit  dans  les 
grandeurs,  selon  le  mot  du  grand  Jefferson.  On  ne 
l’aime  pas  dans  la  Society,  mais  on  le  respecte  et  on 
le  craint.  II  n’y  a qu’un  mot  pour  ce  membre  au- 
dessus  de  “ Bylaws.”  Co  mot  est  pour  lui  ce  que 
l’Om  est  aux  Hindous.  C’est  sa  religion;  il  n’y  a 
rien  audela.  Ce  mot  la  c’est  la  Constitution  ! 

Lesdites  Soci^tes  publient  des  feuilletons  de  terns 
en  terns.  On  les  trouve  abandonnes  a sa  porte,  nus 
comme  des  enfans  nouveaunes,  faute  de  membrane 
cutanee,  ou  meme  papyrac^e.  Si  on  aime  le  bota- 
nique,  on  y trouve  une  memoire  sur  les  coquilles;  si 


1 66 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


on  fait  des  etudes  zoologiques,  on  trouve  un  grand 
ta^de  qfy/ — 1,  ce  qui  doit  etre  infiniment  plus  com- 
mode que  les  encvclop^dies.  Ainsi  il  est  clair  comme 
la  m^taphysique  qu’on  doit  devenir  membre  d’une 
Socidt4  telle  que  nous  d^crivons. 

Recette  pour  le  Depilatoire  Physiophilosophique. 

Chaux  vive  lb.  ss.  Eau  bouillante  Oj. 

Depilez  avec.  Polissez  ensuite. 

I told  the  boy  that  his  translation  into 

French  was  creditable  to  him ; and  some  of  the 
company  wishing  to  hear  what  there  was  in  the 
piece  that  made  me  smile,  I turned  it  into  English 
for  them,  as  well  as  I could,  on  the  spot. 

The  landlady’s  daughter  seemed  to  be  much 
amused  by  the  idea  that  a depilatory  could  take 
the  place  of  literary  and  scientific  accomplish- 
ments ; she  wanted  me  to  print  the  piece,  so  that 
she  might  send  a copy  of  it  to  her  cousin  in  Miz- 
zourah ; she  did  n’t  think  he ’d  have  to  do  anything 
to  the  outside  of  his  head  to  get  into  any  of  the 
societies ; he  had  to  wear  a wig  once,  when  he 
played  a part  in  a tabullo. 

No,  — said  I,  — I shouldn’t  think  of  printing 
that  in  English.  I ’ll  tell  you  why.  As  soon  as 
you  get  a few  thousand  people  together  in  a town, 
there  is  somebody  that  every  sharp  thing  you  say 
is  sure  to  hit.  What  if  a thing  was  written  in 
Paris  or  in  Pekin  ? — that  makes  no  difference. 
Everybody  in  those  cities,  or  almost  everybody, 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  167 

has  his  counterpart  here,  and  in  all  large  places.  — 
You  never  studied  averages  as  I have  had  occasion 
to. 

I 'll  tell  you  how  I came  to  know  so  much 
about  averages.  There  was  one  season  when  I 
was  lecturing,  commonly,  five  evenings  in  the 
week,  through  most  of  the  lecturing  period.  I 
soon  found,  as  most  speakers  do,  that  it  was 
pleasanter  to  work  one  lecture  than  to  keep  sev- 
eral in  hand. 

Don’t  you  get  sick  to  death  of  one  lecture  t 

— said  the  landlady’s  daughter,  — who  had  a new 
dress  on  that  day,  and  was  in  spirits  for  conver- 
sation. 

I was  going  to  talk  about  averages,  — I said,  — 
but  I have  no  objection  to  telling  you  about  lec- 
tures, to  begin  with. 

A new  lecture  always  has  a certain  excitement 
connected  with  its  delivery.  One  thinks  well  of 
it,  as  of  most  things  fresh  from  his  mind.  After 
ii  few  deliveries  of  it,  one  gets  tired  and  then  dis- 
gusted with  its  repetition.  Go  on  delivering  it, 
jind  the  disgust  passes  off,  until,  after  one  has  re- 
peated it  a hundred  or  a hundred  and  fifty  times, 
he  rather  enjoys  the  hundred  and  first  or  hundred 
and  fifty-first  time,  before  a new  audience.  But 
this  is  on  one  condition,  — that  he  never  lays  the 
lecture  down  and  lets  it  cool.  If  he  does,  there 
comes  on  a loathing  for  it  which  is  intense,  so 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


1 68 

that  the  sight  of  the  old  battered  manuscript  is 
as  bad  as  sea-sickness. 

A new  lecture  is  just  like  any  other  new  tool. 
We  use  it  for  a while  with  pleasure.  Then  it 
blisters  our  hands,  and  we  hate  to  touch  it.  By 
and  by  our  hands  get  callous,  and  then  we  have 
no  longer  any  sensitiveness  about  it.  But  if  we 
give  it  up,  the  calluses  disappear ; and  if  we  med- 
dle with  it  again,  we  miss  the  novelty  and  get  the 
blisters.  — The  story  is  often  quoted  of  Whitefield, 
that  he  said  a sermon  was  good  for  nothing  until 
it  had  been  preached  forty  times.  A lecture 
does  n’t  begin  to  be  old  until  it  has  passed  its  hun- 
dredth delivery ; and  some,  I think,  have  doubled, 
if  not  quadrupled,  that  number.  These  old  lec- 
tures are  a man’s  best,  commonly ; they  improve 
by  age,  also,  — like  the  pipes,  fiddles,  and  poems  I 
told  you  of  the  other  day.  One  learns  to  make 
the  most  of  their  strong  points  and  to  carry  off 
their  weak  ones,  — to  take  out  the  really  good 
things  which  don’t  tell  on  the  audience,  and  put 
in  cheaper  things  that  do.  All  this  degrades  him, 
of  course,  but  it  improves  the  lecture  for  general 
delivery.  A thoroughly  popular  lecture  ought  to 
have  nothing  in  it  which  five  hundred  people  can- 
not all  take  in  a flash,  just  as  it  is  uttered. 

No,  indeed,  — I should  be  very  sorry  to 

say  anything  disrespectful  of  audiences.  I have 
been  kindly  treated  by  a great  many,  and  may  oc- 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  169 

casionally  face  one  hereafter.  But  I tell  you  the 
average  intellect  of  five  hundred  persons,  taken  as 
they  come,  is  not  very  high.  It  may  be  sound 
and  safe,  so  far  as  it  goes,  but  it  is  not  very  rapid 
or  profound.  A lecture  ought  to_be  something 
which._alL.can  understand,  about  something  which 
interests  everybody.  I think,  that,  if  any  experi- 
enced lecturer  gives  you  a different  account  from 
this,  it  will  probably  be  one  of  those  eloquent  or 
forcible  speakers  who  hold  an  audience  by  the 
charm  of  their  manner,  whatever  they  talk  about, 
— even  when  they  don’t  talk  very  well. 

But  an  average , which  was  what  I meant  to 
speak  about,  is  one  of  the  most  extraordinary 
subjects  of  observation  and  study.  It  is  awful  in 
its  uniformity,  in  its  automatic  necessity  of  action. 
Two  communities  of  ants  01*  bees  are  exactly  alike 
in  all  their  actions,  so  far  as  we  can  see.  Two 
lyceum  assemblies,  of  five  hundred  each,  are  so 
nearly  alike,  that  they  are  absolutely  undistin- 
guishable  in  many  cases  by  any  definite  mark, 
and  there  is  nothing  but  the  place  and  time  by 
which  one  can  tell  the  “ remarkably  intelligent 
audience  ” of  a town  in  New  York  or  Ohio  from 
one  in  any  New  England  town  of  similar  size. 
Of  course,  if  any  principle  of  selection  has  come 
in,  as  in  those  special  associations  of  young  men 
which  are  common  in  cities,  it  deranges  the  uni- 
formity of  the  assemblage.  But  let  there  be  no 


170 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


such  interfering  circumstances,  and  one  knows 
pretty  well  even  the  look  the  audience  will  have, 
before  he  goes.  Front  seats:  a few  old  folks, — 
shiny-headed,  — slant  up  best  ear  towards  the 
speaker,  — drop  off  asleep  after  a while,  when  the 
'air  begins  to  get  a little  narcotic  with  carbonic 
acid.  Bright  women’s  faces,  young  and  middle- 
aged,  a little  behind  these,  but  toward  the  front  — 
(pick  out  the  best,  and  lecture  mainly  to  that.) 
Here  and  there  a countenance,  sharp  and  scholar- 
like, and  a dozen  pretty  female  ones  sprinkled 
about.  An  indefinite  number  of  pairs  of  young 
people,  — happy,  but  not  always  very  attentive. 
Boys,  in  the  background,  more  or  less  quiet.  Dull 
faces  here,  there,  — in  how  many  places  ! I don’t 
say  dull  people , but  faces  without  a ray  of  sympa- 
thy or  a movement  of  expression.  They  are  what 
kill  the  lecturer.  These  negative  faces  with  their 
vacuous  eyes  and  stony  lineaments  pump  and  suck 
the  warm  soul  out  of  him  ; — that  is  the  chief 
reason  why  lecturers  grow  so  pale  before  the  sea- 
son is  over.  They  render  latent  any  amount  of 
vital  caloric ; they  act  on  our  minds  as  those 
cold-blooded  creatures  I was  talking  about  act  on 
our  hearts. 

Out  of  all  these  inevitable  elements  the  audience 
is  generated,  — a great  compound  vertebrate,  as 
much  like  fifty  others  you  have  seen  as  any  two 
mammals  of  the  same  species  are  like  each  other 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  171 

Each  audience  laughs,  and  each  cries,  in  just  the 
same  places  of  your  lecture ; that  is,  if  you  make 
one  laugh  or  cry,  you  make  all.  Even  those  little 
indescribable  movements  which  a lecturer  takes 
cognizance  of,  just  as  a driver  notices  his  horse’s 
cocking  his  ears,  are  sure  to  come  in  exactly  tht\ 
same  place  of  your  lecture  always.  I declare  to 
you,  that,  as  the  monk  said  about  the  picture  in 
the  convent,  — that  he  sometimes  thought  the  liv- 
ing tenants  were  the  shadows,  and  the  painted 
figures  the  realities,  — I have  sometimes  felt  as  if 
I were  a wandering  spirit,  and  this  great  unchang- 
ing multi  vertebrate  which  I faced  night  after  night 
was  one  ever-listening  animal,  which  writhed  along 
after  me  wherever  I fled,  and  coiled  at  my  feet 
every  evening,  turning'  up  to  me  the  same  sleep- 
less eyes  which  I thought  I had  closed  with  my 
last  drowsy  incantation ! 

O yes ! A thousand  kindly  and  courte- 
ous acts,  — a thousand  faces  that  melted  individ- 
ually out  of  my  recollection  as  the  April  snow 
melts,  but  only  to  steal  away  and  find  the  beds 
of  flowers  whose  roots  are  memory,  but  which 
blossom  in  poetry  and  dreams.  I am  not  un- 
grateful, nor  unconscious  of  all  the  good  feeling 
and  intelligence  everywhere  to  be  met  with  through 
.he  vast  parish  to  which  the  lecturer  ministers. 
But  when  I set  forth,  leading  a string  of  my 
mind’s  daughters  to  market,  as  the  country-folk 


172 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


fetch  in  their  strings  of  horses  — Pardon  me,  that 
was  a coarse  fellow  who  sneered  at  the  sympathy 
wasted  on  an  unhappy  lecturer,  as  if,  because  he 
was  decently  paid  for  his  services,  he  had  there' 
fore  sold  his  sensibilities.  — Family  men  get  dread' 
fully  homesick.  In  the  remote  and  bleak  village 
the  heart  returns  to  the  red  blaze  of  the  logs  in 
one’s  fireplace  at  home. 

“There  are  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play,”  — 

if  he  owns  any  youthful  savages.  — No,  the  world 
has  a million  roosts  for  a man,  but  only  one  nest. 

It  is  a fine  thing  to  be  an  oracle  to  which 

an  appeal  is  always  made  in  all  discussions.  The 
men  of  facts  wait  their  turn  in  grim  silence,  with 
that  slight  tension  about  the  nostrils  which  the 
consciousness  of  carrying  a “ settler  ” in  the  form 
of  a fact  or  a revolver  gives  the  individual  thus 
armed.  When  a person  is  really  full  of  informa- 
tion, and  does  not  abuse  it  to  crush  conversation, 
his  part  is  to  that  of  the  real  talkers  what  the  in- 
strumental accompaniment  is  in  a trio  or  quartette 
of  vocalists. 

What  do  I mean  by  the  real  talkers  ? — 

Why,  the  people  with  fresh  ideas,  oF~course,  and 
plenty  of  good  warm  words  to  dress  them  in. 
Facts  always  yield  the  place  of  honor,  in  conver- 
sation, to  thoughts  about  facts  ; but  if  a false  note 
is  uttered,  down  comes  the  finger  on  the  key  and 


OF  THE  BREAK  FAS  7-  TABLE. 


173 


the  mail  of  facts  asserts  his  true  dignity.  I have 
known  three  of  these  men  of  facts,  at  least,  who 
were  always  formidable,  — and  one  of  them  was 
tyrannical. 

Yes,  a man  sometimes  makes  a grand  ap- 
pearance on  a particular  occasion ; but  these  men 
knew  something  about  almost  everything,  and 
never  made  mistakes.  — He  1 Veneers  in  first-rate 
style.  The  mahogany  scales  off  now  and  then  in 
spots,  and  then  you  see  the  cheap  light  stuff.  — I 

found very  fine  in  conversational  information, 

the  other  day  when  we  were  in  company.  The 
talk  ran  upon  mountains.  He  was  wonderfully 
well  acquainted  with  the  leading  facts  about  the 
Andes,  the  Apennines,  and  the  Appalachians; 
he  had  nothing  in  particular  to  say  about  Ara- 
rat, Ben  Nevis,  and  various  other  mountains  that 
were  mentioned.  By  and  by  some  Revolutionary 
anecdote  came  up,  and  he  showed  singular  famil- 
iarity "with  the  lives  of  the  Adamses,  and  gave 
many  details  relating  to  Major  Andre.  A point 
of  Natural  History  being  suggested,  he  gave  an 
excellent  account  of  the  air-bladder  of  fishes.  He 
was  very  full  upon  the  subject  of  agriculture,  but 
retired  from  the  conversation  when  horticulture 
was  introduced  in  the  discussion.  So  he  seemed 
well  acquainted  with  the  geology  of  anthracite, 
but  did  not  pretend  to  know  anything  of  other 
kinds  of  coal.  There  was  something  so  odd  about 


174 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


the  extent  and  limitations  of  his  knowledge,  that 
I suspected  all  at  once  what  might  be  the  meaning 
of  it,  and  waited  till  I got  an  opportunity.  — Have 
you  seen  the  “ New  American  Cyclopaedia  ? ” said 
I.  — I have,  he  replied  ; I received  an  early  copy. 
— How  far  does  it  go  ? — He  turned  red,  and  an- 
swered, — To  Araguay.  — O,  said  I to  myself,  — 
not  quite  so  far  as  Ararat ; — that  is  the  reason  he 
knew  nothing  about  it ; but  he  must  have  read  all 
the  rest  straight  through,  and,  if  he  can  remember 
what  is  in  this  volume  until  he  has  read  all  those 
that  are  to  come,  he  will  know  more  than  I ever 
thought  he  would. 

Since  I had  this  experience,  I hear  that  some- 
body else  has  related  a similar  story.  I did  n't 
borrow  it,  for  all  that.  — I made  a comparison  at 
table  some  time  since,  which  has  often  been  quoted 
and  received  many  compliments.  It  was  that  of 
the  mind  of  a bigot  to  the  pupil  of  the  eye  ; the 
more  light  you  pour  on  it,  the  more  it  contracts. 
The  simile  is  a very  obvious,  and,  I suppose  I 
may  now  say,  a happy  one  ; for  it  has  just  been 
shown  me  that  it  occurs  in  a Preface  to  certain 
Political  Poems  of  Thomas  Moore’s  published  long 
before  my  remark  was  repeated.  When  a person 
of  fair  character  for  literary  honesty  uses  an  image 
such  as  another  has  employod  before  him,  the  pre- 
sumption is,  that  he  has  struck  upon  it  indepen- 
dently, or  unconsciously  recalled  it,  supposing  it 
his  own 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 175 

It  is  impossible  to  tell,  in  a great  many  cases, 
whether  a comparison  which  suddenly  suggests  it- 
self is  a new  conception  or  a recollection.  I told 
you  the  other  day  that  I never  wrote  a line  of  verse 
that  seemed  to  me  comparatively  good,  but  it  ap- 
peared old  at  once,  and  often  as  if  it  had  been 
borrowed.  But  I confess  I never  suspected  the 
above  comparison  of  being  old,  except  from  the 
fact  of  its  obviousness.  It  is  proper,  however,  that 
I proceed  by  a formal  instrument  to  relinquish  all 
claim  to  any  property  in  an  idea  given  to  the  world 
at  about  the  time  when  I had  just  joined  the  class 
in  which  Master  Thomas  Moore  was  then  a some- 
what advanced  scholar. 

I,  therefore,  in  full  possession  of  my  native  hon- 
esty, but  knowing  the  liability  of  all  men  to  be 
elected  to  public  office,  and  for  that  reason  feeling 
uncertain  how  soon  I may  be  in  danger  of  losing 
it,  do  hereby  renounce  all  claim  to  being  consid- 
ered the  first  person  who  gave  utterance  to  a cer- 
tain simile  or  comparison  referred  to  in  the  accom- 
panying documents,  and  relating  to  the  pupil  of 
the  eye  on  the  one  part  and  the  mind  of  the  bigot 
on  the  other.  I hereby  relinquish  all  glory  and 
profit,  and  especially  all  claims  to  letters  from  au- 
tograph collectors  founded  upon  my  supposed  prop- 
erty in  the  above  comparison, — knowing  well, 
that,  according  to  the  laws  of  literature,  they  who 
speak  first  hold  the  fee  of  the  thing  said.  I do 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


176 

also  agree  that,  all  Editors  of  Cyclopaedias  and 
Biographical  Dictionaries,  all  Publishers  of  Re- 
views and  Papers,  and  all  Critics  writing  therein, 
shall  be  at  liberty  to  retract  or  qualify  any  opin- 
ion predicated  on  the  supposition  that  I was  the 
sole  and  undisputed  author  of  the  above  compari- 
son. But,  inasmuch  as  I do  affirm  that  the  com- 
parison aforesaid  was  uttered  by  me  in  the  firm 
belief  that  it  was  new  and  wholly  my  own,  and 
as  I have  good  reason  to  think  that  I had  never 
seen  or  heard  it  when  first  expressed  by  me,  and 
as  it  is  well  known  that  different  persons  may  in- 
dependently utter  the  same  idea,  — as  is  evinced 
by  that  familiar  line  from  Donatus, 

“ Pereant  ill!  qui  ante  nos  nostra  dixerunt,”  — 

now,  therefore,  I do  request  by  this  instrument 
that  all  well-disposed  persons  will  abstain  from  as- 
serting or  implying  that  I am  open  to  any  accu- 
sation whatsoever  touching  the  said  comparison, 
and,  if  they  have  so  asserted  or  implied,  that  they 
will  have  the  manliness  forthwith  to  retract  the 
same  assertion  or  insinuation. 


I think  few  persons  have  a greater  disgust  for 
plagiarism  than  myself.  ’ If  I had  even  suspected 
that  the  idea  in  question  was  borrowed,  I should 
have  disclaimed  originality,  or  mentioned  the  coin- 
cidence, as  I once  did  in  a case  where  I had  hap- 


4 

1 and 

f'OU  shall  L 


Wi 

That  age  w 
la  spite  01 

Or  silvered  on 
That  babes  a . 

\li 

That  sunshine  hack 
Which  faded  with 

When  winters  came 
And  autumns  with  a 

That  — mother,  sister,  wife,  o- 
The  “ best  of  women  ” eacll 

Were  school-boys  ever  half  sc 
How  young  the  grandpapas  he* 

That  but  for  this  our  souls  were  fret. 
And  but  for  that  our  lives  were  blest 

That  in  some  season  yet  to  be 
Our  cares  will  leave  us  time  to  rest. 

Whene’er  we  groan  with  ache  or  pain, 
Some  common  ailment  of  the  -race,  — 


12 


re  l n 


Known  ; 

enj 

outgrown. 

ambled  brink 
.*<il  flow, 
hat  we  think , 
what  we  know  i 

d text  we  read, 
yond,  all  fear  above, 
ule  nor  cursing  creed 
olot  it : God  is  Love  l 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


*79 


Imy  friend,  the  Professor,  with  a poem 
or  two  annexed  or  intercalated.  I 


|L  particular  record  is  noteworthy 
picipally  for  containing  a paper  by 


VII. 


w^.ld  suggest  to  young  persons  that  they  should 
pass  over  it  lor  the  present,  and  read,  instead  of 
it,  that  story  about  the  young  man  who  was  in 
love  with  the  yo^ng  lady,  and  in  great  trouble  for 
something  like  nine  pages,  but  happily  married  on 
the  tenth  page  or  thereabouts,  which,  I take  it  for 
granted,  will  be  cont^ied  in  the  periodical  where 
this  is  found,  unless  it  differ  from  all  other  publi- 
cations of  the  kind.  Perhaps,  if  such  young  peo- 
ple will  lay  the  number  aside,  and  take  it  up  ten 
years,  or  a little  more,  from  the  present  time,  they 
may  find  something  in  it  for  their  advantage. 
They  can’t  possibly  understand  it  all  now.] 

My  friend,  the  Professor,  began  talking  with  me 
one  day  in  a dreary  sort  of  way.  I could  n’t  get 
at  the  difficulty  for  a good  while,  but  at  last  it 
turned  out  that  somebody  had  been  calling  him  an 
t)ld  man.  — He  did  n’t  mind  his  students  calling 
him  the  old  man,  he  said.  That  was  a technical 


i8o 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


expression,  and  he  thought  that  he  remembered 
hearing  it  applied  to  himself  when  he  was  aboi 
twenty-five.  It  may  be  considered  as  a 
and  sometimes  endearing  appellation.  Ap 
woman  calls  her  husband  “ the  old  marj 
returns  the  caressing  expression 
her  as  “ the  old  woman.”  But  noy 
suppose  a case  like  one  of  these, 
ger  is  overheard  talking  of  you  as 
gentleman.  A friendly  and  genial 
of  your  green  old  age  as  illustrating  the  truth 
some  axiom  you  had  uttered  with  reference  to  that 
period  of  life:  What  I call  an  old  man  is  a per- 

son with  a smooth,  shining  crowy  and  a fringe  of 
scattered  white  hairs,  seen  in  the  streets  on  sun- 
shiny days,  stooping  as  he  walks,  bearing  a.  cane, 
moving  cautiously  and  slow^f ; telling  old  storie 
smiling  at  present  follies,  living  in  a narrow  world 
of  dry  habits  ; one  that  remains  waking  when 
others  have  dropped  asleep,  and  keeps  a little 
night-lamp-flame  of  life  burning  year  after  year, 
if  the  lamp  is  not  upset,  and  there  is  only  a care- 
ful hand  held  round  it  to  prevent  the  puffs  of 
wind  from  blowing  the  flame  out.  That ’s  what  J 


call  an  old  man. 

Now,  said  the  Professor,  you  don’t  mean  to 
tell  me  that  I have  got  to  that  yet  ? Why,  bless 
you,  I am  several  years  short  of  the  time  when  — * 
[l  knew  what  was  coming,  and  could  hardly  keep 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 181 

from  laughing ; twenty  years  ago  he  used  to  quote 
it  as  one  of  those  absurd  speeches  men  of  genius 
will  make,  and  now  he  is  going  to  argue  from  it] 

— several  years  short  of  the  time  when  Balzac  says 
that  men  are  — most  — you  know  — dangerous  to 

— the  hearts  of  — in  short,  most  to  be  dreaded  by 
duennas  that  have  charge  of  susceptible  females. 

— What  age  is  that  ? said  I,  statistically.  — Fifty- 
two  years,  answered  the  Professor.  — Balzac  ought 
to  know,  said  I,  if  it  is  true  that  Goethe  said  of  him, 
that  each  of  his  stories  must  have  been  dug  out  of 
a woman’s  heart.  But  fifty-two  is  a high  figure. 

Stand  in  the  light  of  the  window,  Professor, 
said  I.  — The  Professor  took  up  the  desired  posi- 
tion. — You  have  white  hairs,  I said.  — Had  ’em 
any  time  these  twenty  years,  said  the  Professor.  — 
And  the  crow’s-foot,  — pes  anserinus , rather.  — The 
Professor  smiled,  as  I wanted  him  to,  and  the  folds 
radiated  like  the  ridges  of  a half-opened  fan,  from 
the  outer  corner  of  the  eyes  to  the  temples.  — And 
the  calipers,  said  I.  — What  are  the  calipers  ? he 
asked,  curiously.  — Why,  the  parenthesis,  said  I. 
Parenthesis  ? said  the  Professor ; what ’s  that  ? — 
Why,  look  in  the  glass  when  you  are  disposed  to 
laugh,  and  seejf  your  mouthAsmTJfained  in_a 

couple  of  j^resomtli-nes, so,  myJboyj(.  ) — It ’s 

all  nonsense,  said  the  Professor;  just  look  at  my 
biceps ; — and  he  began  pulling  off  his  coat  to  show 
me  his  arm.  Be  careful,  said  I ; you  can’t  bear 


182 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


exposure  to  the  air,  at  your  time  of  life,  as  you 
could  once.  — I will  box  with  you,  said  the  Pro- 
fessor, row  with  you,  walk  with  you,  ride  with 
you,  swim  with  you,  or  sit  at  table  with  you,  for 
fifty  dollars  a side.  — Pluck  survives  stamina,  I 
answered. 

The  Professor  went  off  a little  out  of  humor. 
A few  weeks  afterwards  he  came  in,  looking  very 
good-natured,  and  brought  me  a paper,  which  I 
have  here,  and  from  which  I shall  read  you  some 
portions,  if  you  don’t  object.  He  had  been  think- 
ing the  matter  over,  he  said,  — had  read  Cicero 
“ De  Senectute,”  and  made  up  his  mind  to  meet 
old  age  half  way.  These  were  some  of  his  reflec- 
tions that  he  had  written  down ; so  here  you  have 

THE  PROFESSOR’S  PAPER. 

There  is  no  doubt  when  old  age  begins.  The 
human  body  is  a furnace  which  keeps  in  blast 
threescore  years  and  ten,  more  or  less.  It  burns 
about  three  hundred  pounds  of  carbon  a year,  (be- 
sides other  fuel,)  when  in  fair  working  order,  ac- 
cording to  a great  chemist’s  estimate.  When  the 
fire  slackens,  life  declines ; when  it  goes  out,  we 
are  dead. 

It  has  been  shown  hy  some  noted  Prench  exper- 
imenters, that  the  amount  of  combustion  increases 
up  to  about  the  thirtieth  year,  remains  stationary- 
to  about  forty-five,  and  then  diminishes.  This 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  183 

last  is  the  point  where  old  age  starts  from.  The 
great  fact  of  physical  life  is  the  perpetual  com- 
merce with  the  elements,  and  the  fire  is  the  meas- 
ure of  it. 

About  this  time  of  life,  if  food  is  plenty  where 
you  live,  — for  that,  you  know,  regulates  matri- 
mony,— you  may  be  expecting  to  find  yourself  a 
grandfather  some  fine  morning  ; a kind  of  domestic 
felicity  that  gives  one  a cool  shiver  of  delight  to 
think  of,  as  among  the  not  remotely  possible  events. 

I don’t  mind  much  those  slipshod  lines  Dr. 
Johnson  wrote  to  Mrs.  Thrale,  telling  her  about 
life’s  declining  from  thirty-jive ; the  furnace  is  in 
full  blast  for  ten  years  longer,  as  I have  said.  The 
Romans  came  very  near  the  mark ; their  age  of  en- 
listment reached  from  seventeen  to  forty-six  years. 

What  is  the  use  of  fighting  against  the  seasons, 
or  the  tides,  or  the  movements  of  the  planetary 
bodies,  or  this  ebb  in  the  wave  of  life  that  flows 
through  us?  We  are  old  fellows  from  the  mo- 
ment the  fire  begins  to  go  out.  Let  us  always  be- 
have like  gentlemen  when  we  are  introduced  to 
new  acquaintances. 

Incipit  Allegoria  Senectutis. 

Old  Age,  this  is  Mr.  Professor ; Mr.  Professor, 
this  is  Old  Age. 

Old  Age.  — Mr.  ProfesaBI^T  hope  to  see  you 
well.  I have  known  you  for  some  time,  though 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


184 

I think  you  did  not  know  me.  Shall  we  walk 
down  the  street  together  ? 

Professor  (drawing  back  a little). — We  can 
talk  more  quietly  perhaps  in  my  study.  Will 
you  tell  me  how  it  is  you  seem  to  be  acquainted 
with  everybody  you  are  introduced  to,  though  he 
evidently  considers  you  an  entire  stranger  ? 

Old  Age.  — I make  it  a rule  never  to  force 
myself  upon  a person’s  recognition  until  I have 
known  him  at  least  five  years. 

Professor.  — Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have 
known  me  so  long  as  that  ? 

Old  Age.  — I do.  I left  my  card  on  you  longer 
ago  than  that,  but  I am  afraid  you  never  read  it ; 
yet  I see  you  have  it  with  you. 

Professor.  — Where  ? 

Old  Age.  — There  between  your  eyebrows,  — 
three  straight  lines  running  up  and  down  ; all  the 
probate  courts  know  that  token,  — “ Old  Age,  his 
mark.”  Put  your  forefinger  on  the  inner  end  of 
one  eyebrow,  and  your  middle  finger  on  the  inner 
end  of  the  other  eyebrow ; now  separate  the  fin- 
gers, and  you  will  smooth  out  my  sign-manual ; 
that ’s  the  way  you  used  to  look  before  I left  my 
card  on  you. 

Professor.  — What  message  do  people  generally 
send  back  when  you  first  call  on  them  ? 

Old  Age. — Not'9tkome.  Then  I leave  a card 
and  go.  Next  year  I call ; get  the  same  answer; 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  185 

leave  another  card.  So  for  five  or  six,  — some- 
times ten  years  or  r.tore.  At  last,  if  they  don’t 
let  me  in,  I break  in  through  the  front  door  or 
the  windows. 

We  talked  together  in  this  way  some  time. 
Then  Old  Age  said  again,  — Come,  let  us  walk 
down  the  street  together,  — and  offered  me  a cane, 
an  eye-glass,  a tippet,  and  a pair  of  over-shoes.  — > 
No,  much  obliged  to  you,  said  I.  I don’t  warn 
those  things,  and  I had  a little  rather  talk  with 
you  here,  privately,  in  my  study.  So  I dressed 
myself  up  in  a jaunty  way  and  walked  out  alone ; 
— got  a fall,  caught  a cold,  was  laid  up  with  a 
lumbago,  and  had  time  to  think  over  this  whole 
matter. 

Explicit  Allegoria  Senectutis. 

We  have  settled  when  old  age  begins.  Like  all 
Nature’s  processes,  it  is  gentle  and  gradual  in  its 
approaches,  strewed  with  allusions,  and  all  its  lit- 
tle griefs  soothed  by  natural  sedatives.  But  the 
iron  hand  is  not  less  irresistible  because  it  wears 
the  velvet  glove.  The  buttonwood  throws  off  its 
bark  in  large  flakes,  which  one  may  find  lying  at 
its  foot,  pushed  out,  and  at  last  pushed  off,  by  that 
tranquil  movement  from  beneath,  which  is  too 
slow  to  be  seen,  but  too  powerful  to  be  arrested. 
One  finds  them  always,  but  pne  rarely  sees  them 
fall.  So  it  is  our  youth  from  us,  — scales 

off,  sapless  and  lifeless,  and^ays  bare  the  tender 


1 8 6 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


and  immature  fresh  growth  of  old  age.  Looked 
at  collectively,  the  changes  old  age  appear  as  a 
series  of  personal  insults  and  indignities,  termi- 
nating at  last  in  death,  which  Sir  Thomas  Browne 
has  called  “ the  very  disgrace  and  ignominy  of  our 
natures.” 


My  lady’s  cheek  can  boast  no  more 
The  cranberry  white  and  pink  it  wore  *, 

And  where  her  shining  locks  divide, 

The  parting  line  is  all  too  wide 

No,  no,  — this  will  never  do.  Talk  about  men,  if 
you  will,  but  spare  the  poor  women. 

We  have  a brief  description  of  seven  stages  of 
life  by  a remarkably  good  observer.  It  is  very 
presumptuous  to  attempt  to  add  to  it,  yet  I have 
been  struck  with  the  fact  that  life  admits  of  a nat- 
ural analysis  into  no  less  than  fifteen  distinct  pe- 
riods. Taking  the  five  primary  divisions,  infancy, 
childhood,  youth,  manhood,  old  age,  each  of  these 
has  its  own  three  periods  of  immaturity,  complete 
development,  and  decline.  I recognize  an  old  baby 
at  once,  — with  its  “ pipe  and  mug,”  (a  stick  of 
candy  and  a porringer,)  — so  does  everybody; 
and  an  old  child  shedding  its  milk-teeth  is  only  a 
little  prototype  of  the  old  man  shedding  his  per- 
manent ones.  Fifty  or  thereabouts  is  only  the 
childhood,  as  it  old  age ; the  graybeard 

youngster  must  b^^^ped  from  his  late  suppers 
now.  So  you  wiinEF that  you  have  to  make  fif- 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  187 


teen  stages  at  any  rate,  and  that  it  would  not  be 
hard  to  make  twenty-five ; five  primary,  each  with 
five  secondary  divisions. 

The  infancy  and  childhood  of  commencing  old 
age  have  the  same  ingenuous  simplicity  and  de- 
lightful unconsciousness  about  them  as  the  first 
stage  of  the  earlier  periods  of  life  shows.  The 
great  delusion  of  mankind  is  in  supposing  that  to 
be  individual  and  exceptional  which  is  universal 
and  according  to  law.  A person  is  always  star- 
tled when,  lie  hears  himself  seriously  called  an  old 
man  for  the  first  time. 

Nature  gets  us  out  of  youth  into  manhood,  as 
sailors  are  hurried  on  board  of  vessels,  — in  a state 
of  intoxication.  We  are  hustled  into  maturity 
reeling  with  our  passions  and  imaginations,  and 
we  have  drifted  far  away  from  port  before  we 
awake  out  of  our  illusions.  But  to  carry  us  out 
of  maturity  into  old  age,  without  our  knowing 
where  we  are  going,  she  drugs  us  with  strong  opi- 
ates, and  so  we  stagger  along  with  wide-open  eyes 
that  see  nothing  until  snow  enough  has  fallen  on 
our  heads  to  rouse  our  half  comatose  brains  out  of 
their  stupid  trances. 

There  is  one  mark  of  age  that  strikes  me  more 
than  any  of  the  physical  ones  ; — I mean  the  for- 
mation of  Habits.  An  who  shrinks  into 

himself  falls  into  ways  thffi  becciue  as  positive  and 
as  much  beyond  the  reachlBK&tside  influences  as 


1 8 8 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


if  they  were  governed  by  clock-work.  The  animal 
functions,  as  the  physiologists  call  them,  in  distinc- 
tion from  the  organic,  tend,  in  the  process  of  deteri- 
oration to  which  age  and  neglect  united  gradually 
lead  them,  to  assume  the  periodical  or  rhythmical 
type  of  movement.  Every  man’s  heart  (this  organ 
belongs,  you  know,  to  the  organic  system)  has  a 
regular  mode  of  action  ; but  I know  a great  many 
men  whose  brains,  and  all  their  voluntary  exist- 
ence flowing  from  their  brains,  have  a systole  and 
diastole  as  regular  as  that  of  the  heart  itself.  Habit 
is  the  approximation  of  the  animal  system  to  the 
organic.  It  is  a confession  of  failure  in  the  high- 
est function  of  being,  which  involves  a perpetual 
self-determination,  in  full  view  of  all  existing  cir- 
cumstances. But  habit,  you  see,  is  an  action  in 
present  circumstances  from  past  motives.  It  is 
substituting  a vis  a tergo  for  the  evolution  of  living 
force. 

When  a man,  instead  of  burning  up  three  hun- 
dred pounds  of  carbon  a year,  has  got  down  to 
two  hundred  and  fifty,  it  is  plain  enough  he  must 
economize  force  somewhere.  Now  habit  is  a la- 
bor-saving invention  which  enables  a man  to  get 
along  with  less  fuel,  — that  is  all ; for  fuel  is  force, 
you  know,  just  as  much  in  the  page  I am  writing 
for  you  as  in  the  lofgtfMve  or  the  legs  that  carry 
it  to  you.  Carboi^^^Hteame  thing,  whether  you 
call  it  wood,  or  co^^^oread  and  cheese.  A ^ev- 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  18^ 

erend  gentleman  demurred  to  this  statement,  — as 
if,  because  combustion  is  asserted  to  be  the  sine 
qua  non  of  thought,  therefore  thought  is  alleged  to 
be  a purely  chemical  process.  Facts  of  chemistry 
are  one  thing,  I told  him,  and  facts  of  conscious- 
ness another.  It  can  be  proved  to  him,  by  a very 
simple  analysis  of  some  of  his  spare  elements,  that 
every  Sunday,  when  he  does  his  duty  faithfully, 
he  uses  up  more  phosphorus  out  of  his  brain  and 
nerves  than  on  ordinary  days.  But  then  he  had 
his  choice  whether  to  do  his  duty,  or  to  neglect  it, 
and  save  his  phosphorus  and  other  combustibles. 

It  follows  from  all  this  that  the  formation  of  hab- 
its ought  naturally  to  be,  as  it  is,  the  special  char- 
acteristic of  age.  As  for  the  muscular  powers, 
they  pass  their  maximum  long  before  the  time 
when  the  true  decline  of  life  begins,  if  we  may 
judge  by  the  experience  of  the  ring.  A man  is 
“ stale,”  I think,  in  their  language,  soon  after 
thirty,  — often,  no  doubt,  much  earlier,  as  gen- 
tlemen of  the  pugilistic  profession  are  exceed- 
ingly apt  to  keep  their  vital  fire  burning  with  the 
blower  up, . 

So  far  without  Tully.  But  in  the  mean 

time  I have  been  reading  the  treatise,  “ De  Senec- 
tute.”  It  is  not  long,  but  a leisurely  performance. 
The  old  gentleman  was  sixty-three  years  of  age 
when  he  addressed  it  to  his  friend  T.  Pomponius 
Atticus,  Eq.,  a person  of  distinction,  some  two  or 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


190 

three  years  older.  We  read  it  when  we  are  school- 
boys,  forget  all  about  it  for  thirty  years,  and  then 
take  it  up  again  by  a natural  instinct,  — provided 
always  that  we  read  Latin  as  wre  drink  water, 
without  stopping  to  taste  it,  as  all  of  us  who  ever 
learned  it  at  school  or  college  ought  to  do. 

Cato  is  the  chief  speaker  in  the  dialogue.  A 
good  deal  of  it  is  what  would  be  called  in  vulgar 
phrase  “ slow.”  It  unpacks  and  unfolds  incident- 
al illustrations  which  a modern  writer  would  look 
at  the  back  of,  and  toss  each  to  its  pigeon-hole. 
I think  ancient  classics  and  ancient  people  are 
alike  in  the  tendency  to  this  kind  of  expansion. 

An  old  doctor  came  to  me  once  (this  is  literal 
fact)  with  some  contrivance  or  other  for  people 
with  broken  kneepans.  As  the  patient  would  be 
confined  for  a good  while,  he  might  find  it  dull 
work  to  sit  with  his  hands  in  his  lap.  Reading, 
the  ingenious  inventor  suggested,  would  be  an 
agreeable  mode  of  passing  the  time.  He  men- 
tioned, in  his  written  account  of  his  contrivance, 
various  works  that  might  amuse  the  weary  hour. 
I remember  only  three,  — Don__Quixote,  Tom 
Jones,  and  Watts  on  the  Mind. 

It  is  not  generally  understood  that  Cicero’s 
essay  was  delivered  as  a lyceum  lecture  (concio 
popularis),  at  the  Temple  of  Mercury.  The  jour- 
nals (papyri)  of  the  day  (“  Tempora  Quotidiana,” 
— “ Tribunus  Quirinalis,”  — “ Praeco  Romanus,” 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE 


191 

and  the  rest)  gave  abstracts  of  it,  one  of  which  I 
have  translated  and  modernized,  as  being  a sub- 
stitute for  the  analysis  I intended  to  make. 

IV.  Kal.  Mart 

The  lecture  at  the  Temple  of  Mercury,  last 
evening,  was  well  attended  by  the  elite  of  our 
great  city.  Two  hundred  thousand  sestertia  were 
thought  to  have  been  represented  in  the  house. 
The  doors  were  besieged  by  a mob  of  shabby  fel- 
lows (illotum  vidgus ),  who  were  at  length  quieted 
after  two  or  three  had  been  somewhat  roughly 
handled  (gladio  jugulati).  The  speaker  was  the 
well-known  Mark  Tully,  Eq.,  — the  subject  Old 
Age.  Mr.  T.  has  a lean  and  scraggy  person,  with 
a very  unpleasant  excrescence  upon  his  nasal 
feature,  from  which  his  nickname  of  chick-pea 
(Cicero)  is  said  by  some  to  be  derived.  As  a 
lecturer  is  public  property,  we  may  remark,  that 
his  outer  garment  {toga)  was  of  cheap  stuff  and 
somewhat  worn,  and  that  his  general  style  and 
appearance  of  dress  and  manner  ( habitus , vestitus- 
que)  were  somewhat  provincial. 

The  lecture  consisted  of  an  imaginary  dialogue 
between  Cato  and  Lselius.  We  found  the  first 
portion  rather  heavy,  and  retired  a few  moments 
for  refreshment  ( pocula  queedam  vini). — All  want 
to  reach  old  age,  says  Cato,  and  grumble  when 
they  get  it ; therefore  they  are  donkeys.  — The 
lecturer  will  allow  us  to  say  that  he  is  the  donkey ; 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


192 

we  know  we  shall  grumble  at  old  age,  but  we 
want  to  live  through  youth  and  manhood,  in  spite 
of  the  troubles  we  shall  groan  over.  — There  was 
considerable  prosing  as  to  what  old  age  can  do 
and  can’t.  — True,  but  not  new.  Certainly,  old 
folks  can’t  jump,  — break  the  necks  of  their  thigh- 
bones (femorum  cervices)  if  they  do ; can’t  crack 
nuts  with  their  teeth  ; can’t  climb  a greased  pole 
(malum  inunctum  scandere  non  possunt)  ; but  they 
can  tell  old  stories  and  give  you  good  advice ; if 
they  know  what  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to 
do  when  you  ask  them.  — All  this  is  well  enough, 
but  won’t  set  the  Tiber  on  fire  (Tiberim  accendere 
nequaquam  potest ). 

There  were  some  clever  things  enough  ( dicta 
baud  inepta),  a few  of  which  are  worth  reporting. 

— Old  people  are  accused  of  being  forgetful ; 
but  they  never  forget  where  they  have  put  their 
money.  — Nobody  is  so  old  he  does  n’t  think  he 
can  live  a year.  — The  lecturer  quoted  an  ancient 
maxim,  — Grow  old  early,  if  you  would  be  old 
long,  — but  disputed  it.  — Authority,  he  thought, 
was  the  chief  privilege  of  age.  — It  is  not  great  to 
have  money,  but  fine  to  govern  those  that  have  it. 

— Old  age  begins  at  forty-six  years,  according  to 
the  common  opinion.  — It  is  not  every  kind  of 
old  age  or  of  wine  that  grows  sour  with  time.  — ■ 
Some  excellent  remarks  were  made  on  immortal- 
ity, but  mainly  borrowed  from  and  credited  to 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


*93 

Plato.  — Several-  pleasing  anecdotes  were  told.  — 
Old  Milo,  champion  of  the  heavy  weights  in  his 
day,  looked  at  his  arms  and  whimpered,  “ They 
are  dead.”  Not  so  dead  as  you,  you  old  fool,  — 
says  Cato ; — you  never  were  good  for  anything 
but  for  your  shoulders  and  flanks.  — Pisistratus 
asked  Solon  what  made  him  dare  to  be  so  obsti- 
nate. Old  age,  said  Solon. 

The  lecture  was  on  the  whole  acceptable,  and  a 
credit  to  our  culture  and  civilization.  — The  re- 
porter goes  on  to  state  that  there  will  be  no  lec- 
ture next  week,  on  account  of  the  expected  com- 
bat between  the  bear  and  the  barbarian.  Betting 
( sponsio ) two  to  one  ( duo  ad  unum)  on  the  bear. 

After  all,  the  most  encouraging  things  I 

find  in  the  treatise,  “ De  Senectute,”  are  the 
stories  of  men  who  have  found  new  occupations 
when  growing  old,  or  kept  up  their  common  pur- 
suits in  the  extreme  period  of  life.  Cato  learned 
Greek  when  he  was  old,  and  speaks  of  wishing  to 
learn  the  fiddle,  or  some  such  instrument  (Jidi- 
bus),  after  the  example  of  Socrates.  Solon  learned 
something  new,  every  day,  in  his  old  age,  as  he 
gloried  to  proclaim.  Cyrus  pointed  out  with 
pride  and  pleasure  the  trees  he  had  planted  with 
his  own  hand.  [I  remember  a pillar  on  the  Duke 
of  Northumberland’s  estate  at  Alnwick,  with  an 
inscription  in  similar  words,  if  not  the  same. 

13 


THE  AUTOCRAT . 


‘194 

That,  like  other  country  pleasures,  never  wears 
out.  None  is  too  rich,  none  too  poor,  none  too 
young,  none  too  old  to  enjoy  it.]  There  is  a New 
England  story  I have  heard  more  to  the  point, 
however,  than  any  of  Cicero’s.  A young  farmer 
was  urged  to  set  out  some  apple-trees.  — No,  said 
he,  they  are  too  long  growing,  and  I don’t  want 
to  plant  for  other  people.  The  young  farmer’s 
father  was  spoken  to  about  it,  but  he,  with  better 
reason,  alleged  that  apple-trees  were  slow  and  life 
was  fleeting.  At  last  some  one  mentioned  it  to 
the  old  grandfather  of  the  young  farmer.  He  had 
nothing  else  to  do,  — so  he  stuck  in  some  trees. 
He  lived  long  enough  to  drink  barrels  of  cider 
made  from  the  apples  that  grew  on  those  trees. 

As  for  myself,  after  visiting  a friend  lately,  — 
[Do  remember  all  the  time  that  this  is  the  Profes- 
sor’s paper.]  — I satisfied  myself  that  I had  better 
concede  the  fact  that  — my  contemporaries  are  not 
so  young  as  they  have  been,  — and  that,  — awk- 
ward as  it  is,  — science  and  history  agree  in  telling 
me  that  I can  claim  the  immunities  and  must  own 
the  humiliations  of  the  early  stage  of  senility.  Ah  ! 
but  we  have  all  gone  down  the  hill  together.  The 
dandies  of  my  time  have  split  their  waistbands 
and  taken  to  high-low  shoes.  The  beauties  of  my 
recollections  — where  are  they  ? They  have  run 
the  gauntlet  of  years  as  well  as  I.  First  the  years 
pelted  them  with  red  roses  till  their  cheeks  were 


OF  THE  BREAK  FAS  T-  TABLE.  195 

all  on  fire.  By  and  by  they  began  throwing  white 
roses,  and  that  morning  flush  passed  away.  At 
last  one  of  the  years  threw  a snow-ball,  and  after 
that  no  year  let  the  poor  girls  pass  without  throw- 
ing snow-balls.  And  then  came  rougher  missiles, 
— ice  and  stones  ; and  from  time  to  time  an  ar- 
row whistled,  and  down  went  one  of  the  poor  girls. 
So  there  are  but  few  left ; and  we  don’t  call  those 
few  girls,  but 

Ah  me ! here  am  I groaning  just  as  the  old 
Greek  sighed  At,  at  / and  the  old  Roman,  Eheul 
I have  no  doubt  wre  should  die  of  shame  and  grief 
at  the  indignities  offered  us  by  age,  if  it  were  not 
that  we  see  so  many  others  as  badly  or  worse  off 
than  ourselves.  We  always  compare  ourselves 
with  our  contemporaries. 

[I  was  interrupted  in  my  reading  just  here. 
Before  I began  at  the  next  breakfast,  I read  them 
these  verses  ; — I hope  you  will  like  them,  and  get 
a useful  lesson  from  them.] 

THE  LAST  BLOSSOM. 

Though  young  no  more,  we  still  would  dream 
Of  beauty’s  dear  deluding  wiles; 

The  leagues  of  life  to  graybeards  seem 
Shorter  than  boyhood’s  lingering  miles. 

Who  knows  a woman’s  wild  caprice  ? 

It  played  with  Goethe’s  silvered  hair, 

And  many  a Holy  Father’s  “ niece  ” 

Has  softly  smoothed  the  papal  chair. 


196 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


When  sixty  bids  us  sigh  in  vain 
To  melt  the  heart  of  sweet  sixteen, 

We  think  upon  those  ladies  twain 
Who  loved  so  well  the  tough  old  Dean. 

We  see  the  Patriarch’s  wintry  face, 

The  maid  of  Egypt’s  dusky  glow, 

And  dream  that  Youth  and  Age  embrace, 
As  April  violets  fill  with  snow. 

Tranced  in  her  Lord’s  Olympian-smile 
His  lotus-loving  Memphian  lies, — 

The  musky  daughter  of  the  Nile 
With  plaited  hair  and  almond  eyes. 

Might  we  but  share  one  wild  caress 
Ere  life’s  autumnal  blossoms  fall, 

And  Earth’s  brown,  clinging  lips  impress 
The  long  cold  kiss  that  waits  us  all ! 

My  bosom  heaves,  remembering  yet 
The  morning  of  that  blissful  day 
When  Rose,  the  flower  of  spring,  I met, 
And  gave  my  raptured  soul  away. 

Flung  from  her  eyes  of  purest  blue, 

A lasso,  with  its  leaping  chain 
Light  as  a loop  of  larkspurs,  flew 

O’er  sense  and  spirit,  heart  and  brain. 

Thou  com’st  to  cheer  my  waning  age, 
Sweet  vision,  waited  for  so  long  ! 

Dove  that  would  seek  the  poet’s  cage 
Lured  by  the  magic  breath  of  song  ! 

She  blushes  ! Ah,  reluctant  maid, 

Love’s  drapeau  rouge  the  truth  has  told 
O’er  girlhood’s  yielding  barricade 

Floats  the  great  Leveller’s  crimson  fold  I 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


197 


Come  to  my  arms  ! — love  heeds  not  years  5 
No  frost  the  bud  of  passion  knows.  — 

Ha  ! what  is  this  my  frenzy  hears  ? 

A voice  behind  me  uttered, Rose  ! 

Sweet  was  her  smile,  — but  not  for  me  $ 

Alas,  when  woman  looks  too  kind, 

Just  turn  your  foolish  head  and  see, — 

Some  youth  is  walking  close  behind  ! 

As  to  giving  up  because  the  almanac  or  the 
Family-Bible  says  that  it  is  about  time  to  do  it,  I 
have  no  intention  of  doing  any  such  thing.  I 
grant  you  that  I burn  less  carbon  than  some  years 
ago.  I see  people  of  my  standing  really  good  for 
nothing,  decrepit,  effete,  la  levre  inferieure  deja  pen- 
dante,  with  what  little  life  they  have  left  mainly 
concentrated  in  their  epigastrium.  But  as  the 
disease  of  old  age  is  epidemic,  endemic,  and  spo- 
radic, and  everybody  that  lives  long  enough  is 
sure  to  catch  it,  I am  going  to  say,  for  the  encour- 
agement of  such  as  need  it,  how  I treat  the  malady 
in  my  own  case. 

First.  As  I feel,  that,  when  I have  anything  to 
do,  there  is  less  time  for  it  than  when  I was  young- 
er, I find  that  I give  my  attention  more  thorough- 
ly, and  use  my  time  more  economically  than  ever 
before ; so  that  I can  learn  anything  twice  as  easily 
as  in  my  earlier  days.  I am  not,  therefore,  afraid 
to  attack  a new  study.  I took  up  a difficult  lan- 
guage a very  few  years  ago  with  good  success,  and 
think  of  mathematics  and  metaphysics  by  and  by. 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


:98 

Secondly.  I have  opened  my  eyes  to  a good 
many  neglected  privileges  and  pleasures  within  my 
reach,  and  requiring  only  a little  courage  to  enjoy 
them.  You  may  well  suppose  it  pleased  me  to 
find  that  old  Cato  was  thinking  of  learning  to  play 
the  fiddle,  when  I had  deliberately  taken  it  up  in 
my  old  age,  and  satisfied  myself  that  I could  get 
much  comfort,  if  not  much  music,  out  of  it. 

Thirdly.  I have  found  that  some  of  those  active 
exercises,  which  are  commonly  thought  to  belong 
to  young  folks  only,  may  be  enjoyed  at  a much 
later  period. 

A young  friend  has  lately  written  an  admirable 
article  in  one  of  the  journals,  entitled,  “ Saints  and 
their  Bodies.”  Approving  of  his  general  doctrines, 
and  grateful  for  his  records  of  personal  experience, 
I cannot  refuse  to  add  my  own  experimental  con- 
firmation of  his  eulogy  of  one  particular  form  of 
active  exercise  and  amusement,  namely,  boating. 
For  the  past  nine  years,  I have  rowed  about,  dur- 
ing a good  part  of  the  summer,  on  fresh  or  salt 
water.  My  present  fleer  on  the  river  Charles  con- 
sists of  three  row-boats.  1.  A small  flat-bottomed 
skiff  of  the  shape  of  a flat-iron,  kept  mainly  to  lend 
to  boys.  2.  A fancy  “ dory  ” for  two  pairs  of 
sculls,  in  which  I sometimes  go  out  with  my  young 
folks.  3.  My  own  particular  water-sulky,  a “ skel- 
eton” or  “ shell”  race-boat,  twenty-two  feet  long, 
with  huge  outriggers,  which  boat  I pull  with  ten 


OF  THE  BREAK F. 


foot  sculls,  — alone,  of  course 
and  tips  him  out,  if  he  does  n* 
about.  In  this  I glide  arount 
down  the  stream,  up  the  Charles 
and  Watertown,  up  the  Mystic,  round 
in  the  wake  of  steamboats,  which  leai 
ter  them  delightful  to  rock  upon ; I lil 
the  bridges,  — those  “ caterpillar  bridges 
brother  professor  so  happily  called 
against  the  black  sides  of  old  wood-sch< 
cool  down  under  the  overhanging  stern 
tall  Indiaman  ; stretch  across  to  the  Navy-Yara, 
where  the  sentinel  warns  me  off  from  the  Ohio,  — 
just  as  if  I should  hurt  her  by  lying  in  her  shadow  ■ 
then  strike  out  into  the  harbor,  where  the  wp, 
gets  clear  and  the  air  smells  of  the  ocean,  — -v  ffel: 
at  once  I remember,  that,  if  a west  wind  \ , s up 
of  a sudden,  I shall  drift  along  past  Jr-  islands, 
out  of  sight  of  the  dear  old  Statejgjpe,  — plate, 
tumbler,  knife  and  fork  all  waithjj^it  home,  but 
no  chair  drawn  up  at  the  table/ mi1£  the  dear  peo- 
ple waiting,  waiting,  waitjj^ while  the  boat  is 
sliding,  sliding,  shying  the  great  desert,  where 
there  isno  tree  and  no  t an  tain.  As  I don’t  want 
my  wreck  to  be  wn  eu  up  on  one  of  the  beaches 
in  company  w hi  devil’s-ayrons,  bladder-weeds, 
dead  horse-shps,  and  bleached  crab-shells,  I turn 
about  and  Zap  my  long,  narrow  wings  for  home. 
When  tk:  tide  is  running  out  »wiftly,  I have  a 


H 


e to  beat,  — though  I have  been 
pretty  tight  places  at  times,  and 
ice  between  a vessel  swinging  round 
until  our  bones  (the  boat’s,  that  is) 
we  had  been  in  the  jaws  of  Behemoth, 
x to  my  moorings  at  the  foot  of  the  Com* 
with  the  rowing-dress,  dash  under  the 
translucent  wave,  return  to  the  garb  of  civi- 
n,  walk  through  my  Garden,  take  a look  at 
elms  on  the  Common,  and,  reaching  my  habi- 
tat, in  consideration  of  my  advanced  period  of  life, 
indulge  in  the  Elysian  abandonment  of  a huge 
recumbent  chair. 

^When  I have  established  a pair  of  well-pro- 
ced  feathering  calluses  on  my  thumbs,  when 
I ai*>,  training  so  that  I can  do  my  fifteen  miles 
at  a str  *ih  without  coming  to  grief  in  any  way, 
when  I ca»erform  my  mile  in  eight  minutes  or 
a little  less^kn  I feel  as  if  I had  old  Time’s 
head  in  chancery  . nd  could  give  it  to  him  at  my 
leisure. 

I do  not  deny  th& attraction  of  walking.  I 
have  bored  this  anciently  through  and  through 
in  my  daily  travels,  until  x mow  it  as  an  old  in- 
habitant of  a Chesbve  knows  iis  cheese.  Why, 
it  was  I who,  in  the  course  of  thee  rambles,  dis- 
covered that  remarkable  avenue  called  Myrtle  Street , 
stretching  in  one  long  line  from  east  ot^he  Reser 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


201 


voir  to  a precipitous  and  rudely-paved  cliff  which 
looks  down  on  the  grim  abode  of  Science,  and  be- 
yond it  to  the  far  hills ; a promenade  so  delicious 
in  its  repose,  so  cheerfully  varied  with  glimpses 
down  the  northern  slope  into  busy  Cambridge 
Street  with  its  iron  river  of  the  horse-railroad,  and 
wheeled  barges  gliding  back  and  forward  over  it, 
— so  delightfully  closing  at  its  western  extremity 
in  sunny  courts  and  passages  where  I know  peace, 
and  beauty,  and  virtue,  and  serene  old  age  must 
be  perpetual  tenants,  — so  alluring  to  all  who  de- 
sire to  take  their  daily  stroll,  in  the  words  of  Dr. 
Watts, — 

“Alike  unknowing  and  unknown,”  — 

that  nothing  but  a sense  of  duty  woul 1 have 
prompted  me  to  reveal  the  secret  of  its  existence. 
I concede,  therefore,  that  walking  is  an  immeasu- 
rably fine  invention,  of  which  old  <*ge  ought  con- 
stantly to  avail  itself. 

Saddle-leather  is  in  some  respects  even  prefera- 
ble to  sole-leather.  The  principal  objection  to  it 
is  of  a financial  character.  But  you  may  be  sure 
that  Bacon  and  Sydenham  did  not  recommend  it 
for  nothing.  One’s  hepar , or,  in  vulgar  language, 
liver,  — a ponderous  organ,  weighing  some  three 
or  four  pounds,  — goes  up  and  down  like  the  dash- 
er of  a churn  in  the  midst  of  the  other  vital  ar- 
rangements, at  every  step  of  a trotting  horse.  The 


202 


THE  AU'l  OCR  A T 


brains  also  are  shaken  up  like  coppers  in  a money- 
box. Riding  is  good,  for  those  that  are  born  with 
a silver-mounted  bridle  in  their  hand,  and  can  ride 
as  much  and  as  often  as  they  like,  without  think- 
ing all  the  time  they  hear  that  steady  grinding 
sound  as  the  horse’s  jaws  triturate  with  calm  lat- 
eral movement  the  bank-bills  and  promises  to  pay 
upon  which  it  is  notorious  that  the  profligate  ani- 
mal in  question  feeds  day  and  night. 

Instead,  however,  of  considering  these  kinds  of 
exercise  in  this  empirical  way,  I will  devote  a 
brief  space  to  an  examination  of  them  in  a more 
scientific  form. 

The  pleasure  of  exercise  is  due  first  to  a purely 
physical  impression,  and  secondly  to  a sense  of 
power  in  action.  The  first  source  of  pleasure  va- 
ries of  course  with  our  condition  and  the  state  of 
the  surrounding  circumstances ; the  second  with 
the  amount  and  kind  of  power,  and  the  extent 
and  kind  of  action.  In  all  forms  of  active  exer- 
cise there  are  three  powers  simultaneously  in  ac- 
tion,— 'the  will,  ^the  muscles,  and  the  intellect. 
Each  of  these  predominates  in  different  kinds  of 
exercise.  In  walking,  the  will  and  muscles  are  so 
accustomed  to  work  together  and  perform  their 
task  with  so  little  expenditure  of  force,  that  the 
intellect  is  left  comparatively  free.  The  mental 
pleasure  in  walking,  as  such,  is  in  the  sense  of 
power  over  all  our  moving  machinery.  But  in 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  203 

riding,  I have  the  additional  pleasure  of  govern- 
ing another  will,  and  my  muscles  extend  to  the 
tips  of  the  animars  ears  and  to  his  four  hoofs,  in- 
stead of  stopping  at  my  hands  and  feet.  Now  in 
this  extension  of  my  volition  and  my  physical 
frame  into  another  animal,  my  tyrannical  instincts 
and  my  desire  for  heroic  strength  are  at  once  grat- 
ified. When  the  horse  ceases  to  have  a will  of  his 
own  and  his  muscles  require  no  special  attention 
on  your  part,  then  you  may  live  on  horseback  as 
Wesley  did,  and  write  sermons  or  take  naps,  as 
you  like.  But,  you  will  observe,  that,  in  riding 
on  horseback,  you  always  have  a feeling  that,  after 
all,  it  is  not  you  that  do  the  work,  but  the  animal, 
and  this  prevents  the  satisfaction  from  being  com- 
plete. 

Now  let  us  look  at  the  conditions  of  rowing.  I 
won’t  suppose  you  to  be  disgracing  yourself  in 
one  of  those  miserable  tubs,  tugging  in  which  is 
to  rowing  the  true  boat  what  riding  a cow  is  to 
bestriding  an  Arab.  You  know  the  Esquimaux 
kayak,  (if  that  is  the  name  of  it,)  don’t  you 
Look  at  that  model  of  one  over  my  door.  Sharp, 
rather  ? — On  the  contrary,  it  is  a lubber  to  the 
one  you  and  I must  have;  a Dutch  fish-wife  to 
Psyche,  contrasted  with  what  I will  tell  you  about. 
— Our  boat,  then,  is  something  Of  the  shape  of  a 
pickerel,  as  you  look  down  upon  his  back,  he  ly- 
ing in  the  sunshine  just  where  the  sharp  edge  of 


204 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


the  water  cuts  in  among  the  lily-pads.  It  is  a 
kind  of  giant  pod,  as  one  may  say,  — tight  every- 
where, except  in  a little  place  in  the  middle,  where 
you  sit.  Its  length  is  from  seven  to  ten  yards, 
and  as  it  is  only  from  sixteen  to  thirty  inches  wide 
in  its  widest  part,  you  understand  why  you  want 
those  “ outriggers,”  or  projecting  iron  frames  with 
the  rowlocks  in  which  the  oars  play.  My  rowlocks 
are  five  feet  apart;  double  the  greatest  width  of 
the  boat. 

Here  you  are,  then,  afloat  with  a body  a rod 
and  a half  long,  with  arms,  or  wings,  as  you  may 
choose  to  call  them,  stretching  more  than  twenty 
feet  from  tip  to  tip  ; every  volition  of  yours  ex- 
tending as  perfectly  into  them  as  if  your  spinal 
cord  ran  down  the  centre  strip  of  your  boat,  and 
the  nerves  of  your  arms  tingled  as  far  as  the 
broad  blades  of  your  oars,  — oars  of  spruce,  bal- 
anced, leathered,  and  ringed  under  your  own  spe- 
cial direction.  This,  in  sober  earnest,  is  the  near- 
est approach  to  flying  that  man  has  ever  made  or 
perhaps  ever  will  make.1  As  the  hawk  sails  with- 
out flapping  his  pinions,  so  you  drift  with  the  tide 
when  you  will,  in  the  most  luxurious  form  of  lo- 
comotion indulged  to  an  embodied  spirit.  But  if 
your  blood  wants  rousing,  turn  round  that  stake 
in  the  river,  which  you  see  a mile  from  here ; and 
when  you  come  in  in  sixteen  minutes,  (if  you  do, 
for  we  are  old  boys,  and  not  champion  scullers, 

1 Note  R. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


205 

you  remember,)  then  say  if  you  begin  to  feel  a lit- 
tle warmed  up  or  not ! You  can  row  easily  and 
gently  all  day,  and  you  can  row  yourself  blind  and 
black  in  the  face  in  ten  minutes,  just  as  you  like.  It 
has  been  long  agreed  that  there  is  no  way  in  which 
a man  can  accomplish  so  much  labor  with  his  mus- 
cles as  in  rowing.  It  is  in  the  boat,  then,  that 
man  finds  the  largest  extension  of  his  volitional 
and  muscular  existence  ; and  yet  he  may  tax  both 
of  them  so  slightly,  in  that  most  delicious  of  ex- 
ercises, that  he  shall  mentally  write  his  sermon,  or 
his  poem,  or  recall  the  remarks  he  has  made  in 
company  and  put  them  in  form  for  the  public,  as 
well  as  in  his  easy-chair. 

I dare  not  publicly  name  the  rare  joys,  the  in- 
finite delights,  that  intoxicate  me  on  some  sweet 
June  morning,  when  the  river  and  bay  are  smooth 
as  a sheet  of  beryl-green  silk,  and  I run  along  rip- 
ping it  up  with  my  knife-edged  shell  of  a boat,  the 
rent  closing  after  me  like  those  wounds  of  angels 
which  Milton  tells  of,  but  the  seam  still  shining  for 
many  a long  rood  behind  me.  To  lie  still  over 
the  Flats,  where  the  waters  are  shallow,  and  see 
the  crabs  crawling  and  the  sculpins  gliding  busily 
and  silently  beneath  the  boat,  — to  rustle  in 
through  the  long  harsh  grass  that  leads  up  some 
tranquil  creek,  — to  take  shelter  from  the  sun- 
beams under  one  of  the  thousand-footed  bridges, 
and  look  down  its  interminable  colonnades,  crust- 


206 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


ed  with  green  and  oozy  growths,  studded  with 
minute  barnacles,  and  belted  with  rings  of  dark 
muscles,  while  overhead  streams  and  thunders  that 
other  river  whose  every  wave  is  a human  soul 
flowing  to  eternity  as  the  river  below  flows  to  the 
ocean,  — lying  there  moored  unseen,  in  loneliness 
so  profound  that  the  columns  of  Tadmor.  in  the 
Desert  could  not  seem  more  remote  from  life,  — 
the  cool  breeze  on  one’s  forehead,  the  stream 
whispering  against  the  half-sunken  pillars,  — why 
should  I tell  of  these  things,  that  I should  live  to 
see  my  beloved  haunts  invaded  and  the  waves 
blackened  ^wth  boats  as  with  a swarm  of  water- 
beetles  ? What  a city  of  idiots  we  must  be  not 
to  have  covered  this  glorious  bay  with  goirdolas 
and  wherries,  as  we  have  just  learned  to  cover  the 
ice  in  winter  with  skaters  ! 

I am  satisfied  that  such  a set  of  black-coat- 
ed, stiff-jointed,  soft-muscled,  paste-complexioned 
youth  as  we  can  boast  in  our  Atlantic  cities  never 
before  sprang  from  loins  of  Anglo-Saxon  lineage. 
Of  the  females  that  are  the  mates  of  these  males 
I do  not  here  speak.  I preached  my  sermon  from 
the  lay-pulpit  on  this  matter  a good  while  ago. 
Of  course,  if  you  heard  it,  you  know  my  belief  is 
that  the  total  climatic  influences  here  are  getting 
up  a number  of  new  patterns  of  humanity,  some 
of  which  are  not  an  improvement  on  the  old 
model.  Clipper-built,  sharp  in  the  bows,  long  in 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 207 

the  spars,  slender  to  look  at,  and  fast  to  go,  the 
ship,  which  is  the  great  organ  of  our  national  life 
of  relation,  is  but  a reproduction  of  the  typical 
form  which  the  elements  impress  upon  its  builder. 
All  this  we  cannot  help ; but  we  can  make  the 
best  of  these  influences,  such  as  they  are.  We 
have  a few  good  boatmen,  — no  good  horsemen 
that  I hear  of, -v  I cannot  speak  for  cricketing, — 
but  as  for  any  great  athletic  feat  performed  by  a 
gentleman  in  these  latitudes,  society  would  drop 
a man  who  should  run  round  the  Common  in  five 
minutes.  Some  of  our  amateur  fencers,  single- 
stick players,  and  boxers  we  have  no  reason  to 
be  ashamed  of.  Boxing  is  rough  play,  but  not 
too  rough  for  a hearty  young  fellow.  Anything 
is  better  than  this  white-blooded  degeneration  to 
which  we  all  tend. 

I dropped  into  a gentlemen’s  sparring  exhibi- 
tion only  last  evening.  It  did  my  heart  good  to 
see  that  there  were  a few  young  and  youngish 
youths  left  who  could  take  care  of  their  own  heads 
in  case  of  emergency.  It  is  a fine  sight,  that  of 
a gentleman  resolving  himself  into  the  primitive 
constituents  of  his  humanity.  Here  is  a delicate 
young  man  now,  with  an  intellectual  countenance, 
a slight  figure,  a sub-pallid  complexion,  a most 
unassuming  deportment,  a mild  adolescent  in  fact, 
that  any  Hiram  or  Jonathan  from  between  the 
ploughtails  would  of  course  oxpect  to  handle  with 


208 


TEE  AUTOCRAT 


perfect  ease.  O,  he  is  taking  off  his  gold-bowed 
spectacles  ! Ah,  he  is  divesting  himself  of  his 
cravat ! Why,  he  is  stripping  off  his  coat ! Well, 
here  he  is,  sure  enough,  in  a tight  silk  shirt,  and 
with  two  things  that  look  like  batter  puddings  m 
the  place  of  his  fists.  Now  see  that  other  fellow 
with  another  pair  of  batter  puddings,  — the  big 
one  with  the  broad  shoulders  ; he  will  certainly 
knock  the  little  man's  head  off,  if  he  strikes  him. 
Feinting,  dodging,  stopping,  hitting,  countering, 
— little  man's  head  not  off  yet.  You  might  as 
well  try  to  jump  upon  your  own  shadow  as  to  hit 
the  little  man’s  intellectual  features.  He  need  n't 
have  taken  off  the  gold-bowed  spectacles  at  all. 
Quick,  cautious,  shifty,  nimble,  cool,  he  catches 
all  the  fierce  lunges  or  gets  out  of  their  reach,  till 
his  turn  comes,  and  then,  whack  goes  one  of  the 
batter  puddings  against  the  big  one's  ribs,  and 
bang  goes  the  other  into  the  big  one’s  face,  and, 
staggering,  shuffling,  slipping,  tripping,  collaps- 
ing, sprawling,  down  goes  the  big  one  in  a mis- 
cellaneous bundle.  — If  my  young  friend,  whose 
excellent  article  I have  referred  to,  could  only  in- 
troduce the  manly  art  of  self-defence  among  the 
clergy,  I am  satisfied  that  we  should  have  better 
sermons  and  an  infinitely  less  quarrelsome  church- 
militant.  A bout  with  the  gloves  would  let  off 
the  ill-nature,  and  cure  the  indigestion,  'which, 
united,  have  embroiled  their  subject  in  a bitter 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 209 

controversy.  We  should  then  often  hear  that  a 
point  of  difference  between  an  infallible  and  a 
heretic,  instead  of  being  vehemently  discussed  in 
a series  of  newspaper  articles,  had  been  settled  by 
a friendly  content  in  several  rounds,  at  the  close 
of  which  the  parties  shook  hands  and  appeared 
cordially  reconciled. 

But  boxing  you  and  I are  too  old  for,  I am 
afraid.  I was  for  a moment  tempted,  by  the  con- 
tagion of  muscular  electricity  last  evening,  to  try 
the  gloves  with  the  Benicia  Boy,  who  looked  in 
as  a friend  to  the  noble  art;  but  remembering 
that  he  had  twice  my  weight  and  half  my  age, 
besides  the  advantage  of  his  training,  I sat  still 
and  said  nothing. 

There  is  one  other  delicate  point  I wish  to 
speak  of  with  reference  to  old  age.  I refer  to  the 
use  of  dioptric  media  which  correct  the  diminished 
refracting  power  of  the  humors  of  the  eye,  — in 
other  words,  spectacles.  I don’t  use  them.  All 
I ask  is  a large,  fair  type,  a strong  daylight  or 
gas-light,  and  one  yard  of  focal  distance,  and  my 
eyes  are  as  good  as  ever.  But  if  your  eyes  fail,  I 
can  tell  you  something  encouraging.  There  is 
now  living  in  New  York  State  an  old  gentleman 
who,  perceiving  his  sight  to  fail,  immediately  took 
<0  exercising  it  on  the  finest  print,  and  in  this 
way  fairly  bullied  Nature  out  of  her  foolish  habit 
vf  taking  liberties  at  five-and-forty,  or  thereabout. 

14 


210 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


And  now  this  old  gentleman  performs  the  most 
extraordinary  feats  with  his  pen,  showing  that  his 
eyes  must  be  a pair  of  microscopes.  I should  be 
afraid  to  say  to  you  how  much  he  writes  in  the 
compass  of  a half-dime,  — whether  the  Psalms  or 
the  Gospels,  or  the  Psalms  and  the  Gospels,  1 
won’t  be  positive. 

But  now  let  me  tell  you  this.  If  the  time  comes 
when  you  must  lay  down  the  fiddle  and  the  bow, 
because  your  fingers  are  too  stiff,  and  drop  the 
ten-foot  sculls,  because  your  arms  are  too  weak, 
and,  after  dallying  awhile  with  eye-glasses,  come 
at  last  to  the  undisguised  reality  of  spectacles,  — 
if  the  time  comes  when  that  fire  of  life  we  spoke 
of  has  burned  so  low  that  where  its  flames  rever- 
berated there  is  only  the  sombre  stain  of  regret, 
and  where  its  coals  glowed,  only  the  white  ashes 
that  cover  the  embers  of  memory,  — don’t  let  your 
heart  grow  cold,  and  you  may  carry  cheerfulness 
and  love  with  you  into  the  teens  of  your  second 
century,  if  you  can  last  so  long.  As  our  friend, 
the  Poet,  once  said,  in  some  of  those  old-fashioned 
heroics  of  his  which  he  keeps  for  his  private  read 
ing>  — 

Call  him  not  old,  whose  visionary  brain 
Holds  o’er  the  past  its  undivided  reign. 

For  him  in  vain  the  envious  seasons  roll 
Who  bears  eternal  summer  in  his  soul. 

If  yet  the  minstrel’s  song,  the  poet’s  lay, 

Spring  with  her  birds,  or  children  with  their  play 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


21  I 


Or  maiden’s  smile,  or  heavenly  dream  of  art 
Stir  the  few  life-drops  creeping  round  his  heart,  — 

Turn  to  the  record  where  his  years  are  told,  — 

Count  his  gray  hairs,  — they  cannot  make  him  old  ! 

End  of  the  Professor's  paper. 

[The  above  essay  was  not  read  at  one  time,  but 
in  several  instalments,  and  accompanied  by  vari- 
ous comments  from  different  persons  at  the  table. 
The  company  were  in  the  main  attentive,  with  the 
exception  of  a little  somnolence  on  the  part  of  the 
old  gentleman  opposite  at  times,  and  a few  sly, 
malicious  questions  about  the  “ old  boys  ” on  the 
part  of  that  forward  young  fellow  who  has  figured 
occasionally,  not  always  to  his  advantage,  in  these 
reports. 

On  Sunday  mornings,  in  obedience  to  a feeling 
I am  not  ashamed  of,  I have  always  tried  to  give 
a more  appropriate  character  to  our  conversation. 
I have  never  read  them  my  sermon  yet,  and  1 
don’t  know  that  I shall,  as  some  of  them  might 
take  my  convictions  as  a personal  indignity  to 
themselves.  But  having  read  our  company  so 
much  of  the  Professor’s  talk  about  age  and  other 
subjects  connected  with  physical  life,  I took  the 
next  Sunday  morning  to  repeat  to  them  the  follow- 
ing poem  of  his,  which  I have  had  by  me  some 
time.  He  calls  it  — I suppose,  for  his  professional 
friends  — The  Anatomist’s  Hymn;  but  I shall 
name  it  — J 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


THE  LIVING  TEMPLE. 

Not  in  the  world  of  light  alone, 

Where  God  has  built  his  blazing  throne. 

Nor  yet  alone  in  earth  below, 

With  belted  seas  that  come  and  go, 

And  endless  isles  of  sunlit  green. 

Is  all  thy  Maker’s  glory  seen  : 

Look  in  upon  thy  wondrous  frame, — 
Eternal  wisdom  still  the  same  ! 

The  smooth,  soft  air  with  pulse-like  waves 
Flows  murmuring  through  its  hidden  caves, 
Whose  streams  of  brightening  purple  rush 
Fired  with  a new  and  livelier  blush, 

While  all  their  burden  of  decay 
The  ebbing  current  steals  away, 

And  red  with  Nature’s  flame  they  start 
From  the  warm  fountains  of  the  heart. 

No  rest  that  throbbing  slave  may  ask. 
Forever  quivering  o’er  his  task, 

While  far  and  wide  a crimson  jet 
Leaps  forth  to  fill  the  woven  net 
Which  in  unnumbered  crossing  tides 
The  flood  of  burning  life  divides. 

Then  kindling  each  decaying  part 
Creeps  back  to  find  the  throbbing  heart. 

But  warmed  with  that  unchanging  flame 
Behold  the  outward  moving  frame, 

Its  living  marbles  jointed  strong 
With  glistening  band  and  silvery  thong. 
And  linked  to  reason’s  guiding  reins 
By  myriad  rings  in  trembling  chains. 

Each  graven  with  the  threaded  zone 
Which  claims  it  as  the  master’s  own. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


213 


See  how  yon  beam  of  seeming  white 
Is  braided  out  of  seven-hued  light, 

Yet  in  those  lucid  globes  no  ray 
By  any  chance  shall  break  astray. 

Hark  how  the  rolling  surge  of  sound, 
Arches  and  spirals  circling  round, 

Wakes  the  hushed  spirit  through  thine  ear 
With  music  it  is  heaven  to  hear. 

Then  mark  the  cloven  sphere  that  holds 
All  thought  in  its  mysterious  folds, 

That  feels  sensation’s  faintest  thrill 
And  flashes  forth  the  sovereign  will  *, 
Think  on  the  stormy  world  that  dwells 
Locked  in  its  dim  and  clustering  cells  ! 

The  lightning  gleams  of  power  it  sheds 
Along  its  slender  glassy  threads ! 

O Father  ! grant  thy  love  divine 
To  make  these  mystic  temples  thine  ! 

When  wasting  age  and  wearying  strife 
Have  sapped  the  leaning  walls  of  life, 
When  darkness  gathers  over  all, 

And  the  last  tottering  pillars  fall, 

Take  the  poor  dust  thy  mercy  warms 
And  mould  it  into  heavenly  forms  ! 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


214 


VIII. 

G has  come.  You  will  find  some 
s to  that  effect  at  the  end  of  these 
If  you  are  an  impatient  reader, 
to  them  at  once.  . In  reading  aloud, 
omit,  if  you  please,  the  sixth  and  seventh  verses. 
These  are  parenthetical  and  digressive,  and,  unless 
your  audience  is  of  superior  intelligence,  will  con- 
fuse them.  Many  people  can  ride  on  horseback 
who  find  it  hard  to  get  on  and  to  get  off  without 
assistance.  One  has  to  dismount  from  an  idea, 
and  get  into  the  saddle  again  at  every  parenthe- 
sis.] 

The  old  gentleman  who  sits  opposite,  find- 
ing that  spring  had  fairly  come,  mounted  a white 
hat  one  day,  and  walked  into  the  street.  It  seems 
to  have  been  a premature  or  otherwise  excep- 
tionable exhibition,  not  unlike  that  commemo- 
rated by  the  late  Mr.  Bayly.  When  the  old  gen- 
tleman came  home,  he  looked  very  red  in  the  face, 
and  complained  that  he  had  been  “ made  sport  of." 
By  sympathizing  questions,  I learned  from  him 
that  a boy  had  called  him  “ old  daddy,”  and  asked 
him  when  he  had  his  hat  whitewashed. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 215 

This  incident  led  me  to  make  some  observations 
at  the  table  the  next  morning,  which  I here  repeat 
for  the  benefit  of  the  readers  of  this  record. 

The  hat  is  the  vulnerable  point  of  the  arti- 
ficial integument.  I learned  this  in  early  boyhood. 
I was  once  equipped  in  a hat  of  Leghorn  straw, 
having  a brim  of  much  wider  dimensions  than  wero 
usual  at  that  time,  and  sent  to  school  in  that  por- 
tion of  my  native  town  which  lies  nearest  to  this 
metropolis.  On  my  way  I was  met  by  a “ Port- 
chuck,  ” as  we  used  to  call  the  young  gentlemen 
of  .that  locality,  and  the  following  dialogue  en- 
sued. 

Tlie  Port-chuck . Hullo,  You-sir,  joo  know  tlT 
wuz  gbn-to  be  a race  to-morrah  ? 

Myself.  No.  Who  *s  gon-to  run,  V wherVt 
gon-to  be  ? 

The  Port-chuck.  Squire  My  call  ’n’  Doctor  Wil- 
liams, round  the  brim  o’  your  hat. 

These  two  much-respected  gentlemen  being  the 
oldest  inhabitants  at  that  time,  and  the  alleged 
race-course  being  out  of  the  question,  the  Port- 
chuck  also  winking  and  thrusting  his  tongue  into 
his  cheek,  I perceived  that  I had  been  trifled  with, 
and  the  effect  has  been  to  make  me  sensitive  and 
observant  respecting  this  article  of  dress  ever  since. 
Here  is  an  axiom  or  two  relating  to  it. 

A hat  which  has  been  popped , or  exploded  by 
being  sat  down  upon,  is  never  itself  again  after- 
wards. 


216 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


It  is  a favorite  illusion  of  sanguine  natures  to 
believe  the  contrary. 

Shabby  gentility  has  nothing  so  characteristic 
as  its  hat.  There  is  always  an  unnatural  calm- 
ness about  its  nap,  and  an  unwholesome  gloss, 
suggestive  of  a wet  brush. 

The  last  effort  of  decayed  fortune  is  expended 
in  smoothing  its  dilapidated  castor.  Thejiat  is  tjra 
ultimum  moriens  of  “ respectability.” 

■ ■ "-"The  old  gentleman  took  all  these  remarks 
and  maxims  very  pleasantly,  saying,  however,  that 
he  had  forgotten  most  of  his  French  except  the 
word  for  potatoes, — pummies  de  tare.  — Ultimum 
moriens , I told  him,  is  old  Italian,  and  signifies 
last  thing  to  die.  With  this  explanation  he  was  well 
contented,  and  looked  quite  calm  when  I saw  him 
afterwards  in  the  entry  with  a black  hat  on  his 
head  and  the  white  one  in  his  hand. 

1 think  myself  fortunate  in  having  the  Poet 

and  the  Professor  for  my  intimates.  We  are  so 
much  together,  that  we  no  doubt  think  and  talk  a 
good  deal  alike ; yet  our  points  of  view  are  in 
many  respects  individual  and  peculiar.  You  know 
me  well  enough  by  this  time.  I have  not  talked 
with  you  so  long  for  nothing,  and  therefore  I don’t 
think  it  necessary  to  draw  my  own  portrait.  But 
let  me  say  a word  or  two  about  my  friends. 

The  Professor  considers  himself,  and  I consider 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


217 


him,  a very  useful  and  worthy  kind  of  drudge.  I 
think  he  has  a pride  in  his  small  technicalities.  I 
know  that  he  has  a great  idea  of  fidelity ; and 
though  I suspect  he  laughs  a little  inwardly  at 
times  at  the  grand  airs  “ Science  ” puts  on,  as  she 
stands  marking  time,  but  not  getting  on,  while  the 
trumpets  are  blowing  and  the  big  drums  beating, 
— yet  I am  sure  he  has  a liking  for  his  specialty, 
and  a respect  for  its  cultivators. 

But  I ’ll  tell  you  what  the  Professor  said  to  the 
Poet  the  other  day.  — My  boy,  said  he,  I can  work 
a great  deal  cheaper  than  you,  because  I keep  all 
my  goods  in  the  lower  story.  You  have  to  hoist 
yours  into  the  upper  chambers  of  the  brain,  and 
let  them  down  again  to  your  customers.  I take 
mine  in  at  the  level  of  the  ground,  and  send  them 
off  from  my  doorstep  almost  without  lifting.  I 
tell  you,  the  higher  a man  has  to  carry  the  raw 
material  of  thought  before  he  works  it  up,  the 
more  it  costs  him  in  blood,  nerve,  and  muscle. 
Coleridge  knew  all  this  very  well  when  he  advised 
every  literary  man  to  have  a profession. 

Sometimes  I like  to  talk  with  one  of  them, 

and  sometimes  with  the  other.  After  a while  I 
get  tired  of  both.  When  a fit  of  intellectual  dis- 
gust comes  over  me,  I will  tell  you  what  I have 
found  admirable  as  a diversion,  in  addition  to  boat- 
ing and  other  amusements  which  I have  spoken  of, 
* — that  is,  working  at  my  carpenter’s-bench.  Some 


2 1 8 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


mechanical  employment  is  the  greatest  possible 
relief,  after  the  purely  intellectual  faculties  begin 
to  tire.  When  I was  quarantined  once  at  Mar- 
seilles, I got  to  work  immediately  at  carving  a 
wooden  wonder  of  loose  rings  on  a stick,  and  got 
so  interested  in  it,  that,  when  we  were  set  loose,  I 
“ regained  my  freedom  with  a sigh,”  because  my 
toy  was  unfinished. 

There  are  long  seasons  when  I talk  only  with 
the  Professor,  and  others  when  I give  myself 
wholly  up  to  the  Poet.  Now  that  my  winter’s 
work  is  over,  and  spring  is  with  us,  I feel  natu- 
rally drawn  to  the  Poet’s  company.  I don’t  know 
anybody  more  alive  to  life  than  he  is.  The  pas- 
sion of  poetry  seizes  on  him  every  spring,  he  says, 

— yet  oftentimes  he  complains,  that,  when  he  feels 
most,  he  can  sing  least. 

Then  a fit  of  despondency  comes  over  him.  — I 
feel  ashamed,  sometimes,  — said  he,  the  other  day, 

— to  think  how  far  my  worst  songs  fall  below  my 
best.  It  sometimes  seems  to  me,  as  I know  it  doe? 
to  others  who  have  told  me  so,  that  they  ought  to 
be  all  best , — if  not  in  actual  execution,  at  least  in 
plan  and  motive.  I am  grateful — he  continued 

— for  all  such  criticisms.  A man  is  always 
pleased  to  have  his  most  serious  efforts  praised, 
and  the  highest  aspect  of  his  nature  get  the  most 
sunshine. 

Yet  I am  sure,  that,  in  the  nature  of  things, 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


219 


many  minds  must  change  their  key  now  and  then, 
on  penalty  of  getting  out  of  tune  or  losing  their 
voices.  You  know,  I suppose,  — he  said,  — what 
is  meant  by  complementary  colors  ? You  know 
the  effect,  too,  which  the  prolonged  impression  of 
any  one  color  has  on  the  retina.  If  you  close  your 
eyes  after  looking  steadily  at  a red  object,  you  see 
a green  image. 

It  is  so  with  many  minds,  — I will  not  say  with 
all.  After  looking  at  one  aspect  of  external  na- 
ture, or  of  any  form  of  beauty  or  truth,  when  they 
turn  away,  the  complementary  aspect  of  the  same 
object  stamps  itself  irresistibly  and  automatically 
upon  the  mind.  Shall  they  give  expression  to 
this  secondary  mental  state,  or  not? 

When  I contemplate  — said  my  friend,  the  Poet 
— the  infinite  largeness  of  comprehension  belong- 
ing to  the  Central  Intelligence,  how  remote  the 
creative  conception  is  from  all  scholastic  and  ethi- 
cal formulae,  I am  led  to  think  that  a healthy  min({ 
ought  to  change  its  mood  from  time  to  time,  and 
come  down  from  its  noblest  condition,  — never,  of 
course,  to  degrade  itself  by  dwelling  upon  what  is 
itself  debasing,  but  to  let  its  lower  faculties  have  a 
chance  to  air  and  exercise  themselves.  After* the 
first  and  second  floor  have  been  out  in  the  bright 
street  dressed  in  all  their  splendors,  shall  not  our 
humble  friends  in  the  basement  have  their  holiday, 
and  the  cotton  velvet  and  the  thin-skinned  jewelry 


220 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


— simple  adornments,  but  befitting  the  station  of 
those  who  wear  them  — show  themselves  to  the 
crowd,  who  think  them  beautiful,  as  they  ought 
to,  though  the  people  up  stairs  know  that  they 
are  cheap  and  perishable  ? 

— — I don’t  know  that  I may  not  bring  the 
Poet  here,  some  day  or  other,  and  let  him  speak 
for  himself.  Still  I think  I can  tell  you  what  he 
says  quite  as  well  as  he  could  do  it.  — 0,  — he 
said  to  me,  one  day,  — I am  but  a hand-organ 
man,  — say  rather,  a hand-organ.  Life  turns  the 
winch,  and  fancy  or  accident  pulls  out  the  stops. 
I come  under  your  windows,  some  fine  spring 
morning,  and  play  you  one  of  my  adagio  move- 
ments, and  some  of  you  say,  — This  is  good,  — 
play  us  so  always.  But,  dear  friends,  if  I did 
not  change  the  stop  sometimes,  the  machine  would 
wear  out  in  one  part  and  rust  in  another.  How 
easily  this  or  that  tune  flows  ! — you  say,  — there 
must  be  no  end  of  just  such  melodies  in  him. 

— I will  open  the  poor  machine  for  you  one  mo- 
ment, and  you  shall  look.  — Ah  ! Every  note 
marks  where  a spur  of  steel  has  been  driven  in. 
It  is  easy  to  grind  out  the  song,  but  to  plant  these 
bristling  points  which  make  it  was  the  painful  task 
of  time. 

I don't  like  to  say  it,  — he  continued,  — but 
poets  commonly  have  no  larger  stock  of  tunes 
than  hand-organs ; and  when  you  hear  them  pip- 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  221 


mg  up  under  your  window,  you  know  pretty  well 
what  to  expect.  The  more  stops,  the  better.  Do 
let  them  all  be  pulled  out  in  their  turn  ! 

So  spoke  my  friend,  the  Poet,  and  read  me  one 
of  his  stateliest  songs,  and  after  it  a gay  chanson, 
and  then  a string  of  epigrams.  All  true,  — he 
said,  — all  flowers  of  his  soul ; only  one  with  the 
corolla  spread,  and  another  with  its  disk  half 
opened,  and  the  third  with  the  heart-leaves  cov- 
ered up  and  only  a petal  or  two  showing  its  tip 
through  the  calyx.  The  water-lily  is  the  type  of 
the  poet’s  soul, — he  told  me. 

What  do  you  think,  sir,  — said  the  divini- 

ity-student,  — opens  the  souls  of  poets  most  fully  1 

Why,  there  must  be  the  internal  forge  and  the 
external  stinmjus^  Neither  is  enough  by  itself. 
A rose  will  not  flower  in  the  dark,  and  a fern 
will  not  flower  anywhere. 

What  do  I think  is  the  true  sunshine  that  opens 
the  poet’s  corolla  1 — I don’t  like  to  say.  They 
spoil  a good  many,  I am  afraid ; or  at  least  they 
shine  on  a good  many  that  never  come  to  any- 
thing. 

Who  are  they  ? — said  the  schoolmistress. 

Women.  Their  love  first  inspires  the  poet,  and 
their  praise  is  his  best  reward. 

The  schoolmistress  reddened  a little,  but  looked 
pleased.  — Did  I really  think  so  ? — I do  think  so ; 
I never  feel  safe  until  I have  pleased  them ; I don’t 


222 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


think  they  are  the  first  to  see  one's  defects,  but 
they  are  the  first  to  catch  the  color  and  fragrance 
of  a true  poem.  Fit  the  same  intellect  to  a man 
and  it  is  a bow-string,  — to  a woman  and  it  is  a 
harp-string.  She  is  vibratile  and  resonant  all 
over,  so  she  stirs  with  slighter  musical  tremblings 

of  the  air  about  her. Ah  me ! — said  my 

friend  the  Poet,  to  me,  the  other  day,  — what 
color  would  it  not  have  given  to  my  thoughts, 
and  what  thrice-washed  whiteness  to  my  words, 
had  I been  fed  on  women's  praises.  I should 
have  grown  like  Marvell's  fawn,  — 

“ Lilies  without ; roses  within  ! ” 

But  then,  — he  added,  we  all  think,  if  so  and  so, 
we 'should  have  been  this  or  that,  as  you  were  say- 
ing, the  other  day,  in  those  rhymes  of  yours. 

1 don't  think  there  are  many  poets  in  the 

sense  of  creators  ; but  of  those  sensitive  natures 
which  reflect  themselves  naturally  in  soft  and  me- 
lodious words,  pleading  for  sympathy  with  their 
joys  and  sorrows,  every  literature  is  full.  Nature 
carves  with  her  own  hands  the  brain  which  holds 
the  creative  imagination,  but  she  casts  the  over- 
sensitive creatures  in  scores  from  the  same  mould. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  poets,  just  as  there  are 
two  kinds  of  blondes.  [Movement  of  curiosity 
among  our  ladies  at  table.  — Please  to  tell  us 
about  those  blondes,  said  the  schoolmistress.) 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  223 

Why,  there  are  blondes  who  are  such  simply  by 
deficiency  of  coloring  matter,  — negative  or  washed 
blondes,  arrested  by  Nature  on  the  way  to  be- 
come albinesses.  There  are  others  that  are  shot 
through  with  golden  light,  with  tawny  or  fulvous 
tinges  in  various  degree,  — positive  or  stained 
blondes,  dipped  in  yellow  sunbeams,  and  as  un- 
like in  their  mode  of  being  to  the  others  as  an 
orange  is  unlike  a snowball.  The  albino-style 
carries  with  it  a wide  pupil  and  a sensitive  retina. 
The  other,  or  the  leonine  blonde,  has  an  opaline 
fire  in  her  clear  eye,  which  the  brunette  can  hard- 
ly match  with  her  quick  glittering  glances. 

Just  so  we  have  the  great  sun-kindled,  construc- 
tive imaginations,  and  a far  more  numerous  class 
of  poets  who  have  a certain  kind  of  moonlight- 
genius  given  them  to  compensate  for  their  imper- 
fection of  nature.  Their  want  of  mental  coloring- 
matter  makes  them  sensitive  to  those  impressions 
which  stronger  minds  neglect  or  never  feel  at  all. 
Many  of  them  die  young,  and  all  of  them  are 
tinged  with  melancholy.  There  is  no  more  beau- 
tiful illustration  of  the  principle  of  compensation 
which  marks  the  Divine  benevolence  than  the  fact 
that  some  of  the  holiest  lives  and  some  of  the 
sweetest  songs  are  the  growth  of  the  infirmity 
which  unfits  its  subject  for  the  rougher  duties  of 
life.  When  one  reads  the  life  of  Cowper,  or  of 
Keats,  or  of  Lucretia  and  Margaret  Davidson,  — 


224 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


of  so  many  gentle,  sweet  natures,  born  to  weak 
ness,  and  mostly  dying  before  their  time,  — one 
cannot  help  thinking  that  the  human  race  dies 
out  singing,  like  the  swan  in  the  old  story.  Th* 
French  poet,  Gilbert,  who  died  at  the  Hotel  Dieu, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-nine,  — (killed  by  a key  in 
his  throat,  which  he  had  swallowed  when  delirious 
in  consequence  of  a fall,)  — this  poor  fellow  was, 
a very  good  example  of  the  poet  by  excess  of  sen- 
sibility. I found,  the  other  day,  that  some  of  my 
literary  friends  had  never  heard  of  him,  though  I 
suppose  few  educated  Frenchmen  do  not  know 
the  lines  which  he  wrote,  a week  before  his  death, 
upon  a mean  bed  in  the  great  hospital  of  Paris. 

“ Au  banquet  de  la  vie,  infortune  convive, 

J’apparus  un  jour,  et  je  meurs  3 

Je  meurs,  et  sur  ma  tombe,  ou  lentement  j’arrive, 

Nul  ne  viendra  verser  des  pleurs.” 

At  life’s  gay  banquet  placed,  a poor  unhappy  guest, 
One  day  I pass,  then  disappear  ; 

I die,  and  on  the  tomb  where  I at  length  shall  rest 
No  friend  shall  come  to  shed  a tear. 

You  remember  the  same  thing  in  other  words 
somewhere  in  Kirke  White’s  poems.  It  is  the 
burden  of  the  plaintive  songs  of  all  these  sweet 
albino-poets.  “ I shall  die  and  be  forgotten,  and 
the  world  will  go  on  just  as  if  I had  never  been ; 
— and  yet  how  I have  loved  ! how  I have  longed  ! 
how  I have  aspired ! ” And  so  singing,  their 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 225 

eyes  grow  brighter  and  brighter,  and  their  fea- 
tures thinner  and  thinner,  until  at  last  the  veil  of 
flesh  is  threadbare,  and,  still  singing,  they  drop  it 
and  pass  onward. 

Our  brains  are  seventy-year  clocks.  The 

Angel  of  Life  winds  them  up  once  for  all,  then 
closes  the  case,  and  gives  the  key  into  the  hand 
of  the  Angel  of  the  Resurrection. 

Tic-tac  ! tic-tac  ! go  the  wheels  of  thought ; our 
will  cannot  stop  them ; they  cannot  stop  them- 
selves ; sleep  cannot  still  them ; madness  only 
makes  them  go  faster ; death  alone  can  break 
into  the  case,  and,  seizing  the  ever-swinging  pen- 
dulum, which  we  call  the  heart,  silence  at  last 
the  clicking  of  the  terrible  escapement  we  have 
carried  so  long  beneath  our  wrinkled  foreheads. 

If  we  could  only  get  at  them,  as  we  lie  on  our 
pillows  and  count  the  dead  beats  of  thought  after 
thought  and  image  after  image  jarring  through  the 
overtired  organ  ! Will  nobody  block  those  wheels, 
uncouple  that  pinion,  cut  the  string  that  holds 
those  weights,  blow  up  the  infernal  machine  with 
gunpowder  ? What  a passion  conies  over  us 
sometimes  for  silence  and  rest ! — that  this  dread- 
ful mechanism,  unwinding  the  endless  tapestry  of 
time,  embroidered  with  spectral  figures  of  life  and 
death,  could  have  but  one  brief  holiday  ! Who 
can  wonder  that  men  swing  themselves  off  from 
1 5 


226 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


beams  in  hempen  lassos  ? — that  they  jump  off 
from  parapets  into  the  swift  and  gurgling  waters 
6eneath  ? — that  they  take  counsel  of  the  grim 
friend  who  has  but  to  utter  his  one  peremptory 
monosyllable  and  the  restless  machine  is  shivered 
as  a vase  that  is  dashed  upon  a marble  floor  ? 
Under  that  building  which  we  pass  every  day 
there  are  strong  dungeons,  where  neither  hook,  nor 
bar,  nor  bed-cord,  nor  drinking-vessel  from  which 
a sharp  fragment  may  be  shattered,  shall  by  any 
chance  be  seen.  There  is  nothing  for  it,  when  the 
brain  is  on  fire  with  the  whirling  of  its  wheels,  but 
to  spring  against  the  stone  wall  and  silence  them 
with  one  crash.  Ah,  they  remembered  that,  — the 
kind  city  fathers,  — and  the  walls  are  nicely  pad- 
ded, so  that  one  can  take  such  exercise  as  he  likes 
without  damaging  himself  on  the  very  plain  and 
serviceable  upholstery.  If  anybody  would  only 
contrive  some  kind  of  a lever  that  one  could  thrust 
in  among  the  works  of  this  horrid  automaton  and 
check  them,  or  alter  their  rate  of  going,  what 
would  the  world  give  for  the  discovery? 

From  half  a dime  to  a dime,  according  to 

the  style  of  the  place  and  the  quality  of  the  liquor, 
* — said  the  young  fellow  whom  they  call  John. 

You  speak  trivially,  but  not  unwisely,  — I said. 
Unless  the  will  maintain  a certain  control  over 
these  movements,  which  it  cannot  stop,  but  can  to 
some  extent  regulate,  men  are  very  apt  to  try  to 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  227 

get  at  the  machine  by  some  indirect  system  of  lev- 
erage or  other.  They  clap  on  the  brakes  by  means 
of  opium  ; they  change  the  maddening  monotony 
of  the  rhythm  by  means  of  fermented  liquors.  It 
is  because  the  brain  is  locked  up  and  we  cannot 
touch  its  movement  directly,  that  we  thrust  these 
coarse  tools  in  through  any  crevice  by  which  they 
may  reach  the  interior,  and  so  alter  its  rate  of 
going  for  a while,  and  at  last  spoil  the  machine. 

Men  who  exercise  chiefly  those  faculties  of  the 
mind  which  work  independently  of  the  will, — 
poets  and  artists,  for  instance,  who  follow  their 
imagination  in  their  creative  moments,  instead  of 
keeping  it  in  hand  as  your  logicians  and  practical 
men  do  with  their  reasoning  faculty,  — such  men 
are  too  apt  to  call  in  the  mechanical  appliances  to 
help  them  govern  their  intellects. 

He  means  they  get  drunk,  — said  the  young 

fellow  already  alluded  to  by  name. 

Do  you  think  men  of  true  genius  are  apt  to  in- 
dulge in  the  use  of  inebriating  fluids  ? — said  the 
divinity-student. 

If  you  think  you  are  strong  enough  to  bear 
ivhat  I am  going  to  say,  — I replied,  — I will  talk 
to  you  about  this.  But  mind,  now,  these  are 
the  things  that  some  foolish  people  call  dangerous 
subjects, — as  if  these  vices  which  burrow  into 
people’s  souls,  as  the  Guinea-worm  burrows  into 
the  naked  feet  of  West-Indian  slaves,  would  be 


228 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


more  mischievous  when  seen  than  out  of  sight. 
Now  the  true  way  to  deal  with  those  obstinate 
animals,  which  are  a dozen  feet  long,  some  of 
them,  and  no  bigger  than  a horse  hair,  is  to  get  a 
piece  of  silk  round  their  heads,  and  pull  them  out 
very  cautiously.  If  you  only  break  them  off,  they 
grow  worse  than  ever,  and  sometimes  kill  the 
person  who  has  the  misfortune  to  harbor  one  of 
them.  ' Whence  it  is  plain  that  the  first  thing  to 
do  is  to, find  out  where  the  head  lies. 

Just  so  of  all  the  vices,  and  particularly  of  this 
vice  of  intemperance.  What  is  the  head  of  it, 
and  where  does  it  lie?  For  you  may  depend 
upon  it,  there  is  not  one  of  these  vices  that  has 
not  a head  of  its  own,  — an  intelligence,  — a 
meaning,  — a certain  virtue,  I was  going  to  say, 
— but  that  might,  perhaps,  sound  paradoxical. 
I have  heard  an  immense  number  of  moral  phy- 
sicians lay  down  the  treatment  of  moral  Guinea- 
worms,  and  the  vast  majority  of  them  would  al- 
ways insist  that  the  creature  had  no  head  at  all, 
hut  was  all  body  and  tail.  So  I have  found  a 
very  common  result  of  their  method  to  be  that  the 
string  slipped,  or  that  a piece  only  of  the  creature 
was  broken  off,  and  the  worm  soon  grew  again, 
as  bad  as  ever.  The  truth  is,  if  the  Devil  could 
only  appear  in  church  by  attorney,  and  make  the 
best  statement  that  the  facts  would  bear  him  out 
in  doing  on  behalf  of  his  special  virtues,  (what  we 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  229 

commonly  call  vices,)  the  influence  of  good  teach- 
ers would  be  much  greater  than  it  is.  For  the 
arguments  by  which  the  Devil  prevails  are  pre- 
cisely the  ones  that  the  Devil-queller  most  rarely 
answers.  The  way  to  argue  down  a vice  is,  not 
to  tell  lies  about  it,  — to  say  that  it  has  no  attrac- 
tions, when  everybody  knows  that  it  has,  — but 
rather  to  let  it  make  out  its  case  just  as  it  cer- 
tainly will  in  the  moment  of  temptation,  and  then 
meet  it  with  the  weapons  furnished  by  the  Divine 
armory.  Ithuriel  did  not  spit  the  toad  on  his 
spear,  you  remember,  but  touched  him  with  it, 
and  the  blasted  angel  took  the  sad  glories  of 
his  true  shape.  If  he  had  shown  fight  then,  the 
fair  spirits  would  have  known  how  to  deal  with 
him. 

That  all  spasmodic  cerebral  action  is  an  evil  is 
not  perfectly  clear.  Men  get  fairly  intoxicated 
with  music,  with  poetry,  with  religious  excite- 
ment,— oftenest  with  love.  Ninon  de  TEnclos 
said  she  was  so  easily  excited  that  her  soup  in- 
toxicated her,  and  convalescents  have  been  made 
tipsy  by  a beef-steak. 

There  are  forms  and  stages  of  alcoholic  ex- 
altation, which,  in  themselves,  and  without  regard 
to  their  consequences,  might  be  considered  as 
positive  improvements  of  the  persons  affected. 
When  the  sluggish  intellect  is  roused,  the  slow 
speech  quickened,  the  cold  nature  warmed,  the 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


230 

latent  sympathy  developed,  the  flagging  spirit 
kindled,  — before  the  trains  of  thought  become 
confused,  or  the  will  perverted,  or  the  muscles 
relaxed, — just  at  the  moment  when  the  whole 
human  zoophyte  flowers  out  like  a full-blown  rose, 
and  is  ripe  for  the  subscription-paper  or  the  con- 
tribution-box, — it  would  be  hard  to  say  that  a 
man  was,  at  that  very  time,  worse,  or  less  to  be 
loved,  than  when  driving  a hard  bargain  with  all 
his  meaner  wits  about  him.  The  difficulty  is, 
that  the  alcoholic  virtues  don’t  wash ; but  until 
the  water  takes  their  colors  out,  the  tints  are  very 
much  like  those  of  the  true  celestial  stuff. 

[Here  I was  interrupted  by  a question  which  X 
am  very  unwilling  to  report,  but  have  confidence 
enough  in  those  friends  who  examine  these  rec- 
ords to  commit  to  their  candor. 

A person  at  table  asked  me  whether  I “ went  in 
for  rum  as  a steady  drink  ? ” — His  manner  made 
the  question  highly  offensive,  but  I restrained 
myself,  and  answered  thus  : — J 

Rum  I take  to  be  the  name  which  unwashed 
moralists  apply  alike  to  the  product  distilled  from 
molasses  and  the  noblest  juices  of  the  vineyard. 
Burgundy  “in  all  its  sunset  glow  ” is  rum.  Cham- 
pagne, “ the  foaming  grape  of  Eastern  France,”  is 
rum.  Hock,  which  our  friend,  the  Poet,  speaks 
of  as 

“ The  Rhine’s  breastmilk,  gushing  cold  and  bright, 

Pale  as  the  moon,  and  maddening  as  her  light,” 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  231 

is  rum.  Sir,  I repudiate  the  loathsome  vulgarism 
as  an  insult  to  the  first  miracle  wrought  by  the 
Founder  of  our  religion  ! I address  myself  to  the 
company.  — I believe  in  temperance,  nay,  almost 
in  abstinence,  as  a rule  for  healthy  people.  I 
trust  that  I practise  both.  But  let  me  tell  you, 
there  are  companies  of  men  of  genius  into  which 
I sometimes  go,  where  the  atmosphere  of  intellect 
and  sentiment  is  so  much  more  stimulating  than 
alcohol,  that,  if  I thought  fit  to  take  wine,  it 
would  be  to  keep  me  sober. 

Among  the  gentlemen  that  I have  known,  few, 
if  any,  were  ruined  by  drinking.  My  few  drunken 
acquaintances  were  generally  ruined  before  they 
became  drunkards.  The  habit  of  drinking  is 
often  a vice,  no  doubt,  — sometimes  a misfortune, 
as  when  an  almost  irresistible  hereditary  propen- 
sity exists  to  indulge  in  it,  — but  oftenest  of  all  a 
punishment. 

Empty  heads,  — heads  without  ideas  in  whole- 
some variety  and  sufficient  number  to  furnish  food 
for  the  mental  clockwork,  — ill-regulated  heads, 
where  the  faculties  are  not  under  the  control  of 
the  will,  — these  are  the  ones  that  hold  the  brains 
which  their  owners  are  so  apt  to  tamper  with,  by 
introducing  the  appliances  we  have  been  talking 
about.  Now,  when  a gentleman's  brain  is  empty 
or  ill-regulated,  it  is,  to  a great  extent,  his  own 
fault ; and  so  it  is  simple  retribution,  that,  while 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


232 

he  lies  slothfully  sleeping  or  aimlessly  dreaming, 
the  fatal  habit  settles  on  him  like  a vampyre,  and 
sucks  his  blood,  fanning  him  all  the  while  with  its 
hot  wings  into  deeper  slumber  or  idler  dreams ! 
I am  not  such  a hrtrd-souled  being  as  to  apply 
this  to  the  neglected  poor,  who  have  had  no 
chance  to  fill  their  heads  with  wholesome  ideas, 
and  to  be  taught  the  lesson  of  self-government.  I 
trust  the  tariff  of  Heaven  has  an  ad  valorem  scale 
for  them  — and  all  of  us. 

But  to  come  back  to  poets  and  artists ; — if 
they  really  are  more  prone  to  the  abuse  of  stimu- 
lants, — and  I fear  that  this  is  true,  — the  reason 
of  it  is  only  too  clear.  A man  abandons  himself 
to  a fine  frenzy,  and  the  power  which  flows 
through  him,  as  I once  explained  to  you,  makes 
him  the  medium  of  a great  poem  or  a great  pic- 
ture. The  creative  action  is  not  voluntary  at  all, 
but  automatic;  we  can  only  put  the  mind  into 
the  proper  attitude,  and  wait  for  the  wind,  that 
blows  where  it  listeth,  to  breathe  over  it.  Thus 
the  true  state  of  creative  genius  is  allied  to  rev- 
erie, or  dreaming.  If  mind  and  body  were  both 
healthy  and  had  food  enough  and  fair  play,  I 
doubt  whether  any  men  would  be  more  temperate 
than  the  imaginative  classes.  But  body  and  mind 
often  flag.  — perhaps  they  are  ill-made  to  begin 
with,  underfed  with  bread  or  ideas,  overworked, 
or  abused  in  some  way.  The  automatic  action, 


OF  THE  BREAK  FAS  T-  TABLE. 


233 

by  which  genius  wrought  its  wonders,  fails. 
There  is  only  one  thing  which  can  rouse  the 
machine  ; not  will,  — that  cannot  reach  it ; noth- 
ing but  a ruinous  agent,  which  hurries  the  wheels 
awhile  and  soon  eats  out  the  heart  of  the  mechan- 
ism. The  dreaming  faculties  are  always  the  dan- 
gerous ones,  because  their  mode  of  action  can  be 
imitated  by  artificial  excitement ; the  reasoning 
ones  are  safe,  because  they  imply  continued  vol- 
untary effort. 

I think  you  will  find  it  true,  that,  before  any 
vice  can  fasten  on  a man,  body,  mind,  or  moral 
nature  must  be  debilitated.  The  mosses  and 
fungi  gather  on  sickly  trees,  not  thriving  6nes ; 
and  the  odious  parasites  which  fasten  on  the 
human  frame  choose  that  which  is  already  en- 
feebled. Mr.  Walker,  the  hygeian  humorist,  de- 
clared that  he  had  such  a healthy  skin  it  was 
impossible  for  any  impurity  to  stick  to  it,  and 
maintained  that  it  was  an  absurdity  to  wash  a 
face  which  was  of  necessity  always  clean.  I don't 
know  how  much  fancy  there  was  in  this ; but 
there  is  no  fancy  in  saying  that  the  lassitude  of 
tired-out  operatives,  and  the  languor  of  imagina- 
tive natures  in  their  periods  of  collapse,  and  the 
vacuity  of  minds  untrained  to  labor  and  discipline, 
fit  the  soul  and  body  for  the  germination  of  the 
seeds  of  intemperance. 

Whenever  the  wandering  demon  of  Drunken- 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


234 

ness  finds  a ship  adrift,  — no  steady  wind  in  its 
sails,  no  thoughtful  pilot  directing  its  course, — 
he  steps  on  board,  takes  the  helm,  and  steers 
straight  for  the  maelstrom. 

— — I wonder  if  you  know  terrible  smile  ? 
[The  young  fellow  whom  they  call  John  winked 
very  hard,  and  made  a jocular  remark,  the  sense 
of  which  seemed  to  depend  on  some  double  mean- 
ing of  the  word  smile.  The  company  was  curious 
to  know  what  I meant.] 

There  are  persons,  — I said,  — who  no  sooner 
come  within  sight  of  you  than  they  begin  to  smile, 
with  an  uncertain  movement  of  the  mouth,  which 
conveys  the  idea  that  they  are  thinking  about 
themselves,  and  thinking,  too,  that  you  are  think- 
ing they  are  thinking  about  themselves,  — and  so 
look  at  you  with  a wretched  mixture  of  self-con- 
sciousness, awkwardness,  and  attempts  to  carry 
off  both,  which  are  betrayed  by  the  cowardly  be- 
havior of  the  eye  and  the  tell-tale  weakness  of  the 
lips  that  characterize  these  unfortunate  beings. 

Why  do  you  call  them  unfortunate,  sir?  — 

asked  the  divinity-student. 

Because  it  is  evident  that  the  consciousness  of 
some  imbecility  or  other  is  at  the  bottom  of  this 
extraordinary  expression.  I don’t  think,  however, 
that  these  persons  are  commonly  fools.  I have 
known  a number,  and  all  of  them  were  intelligent 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 235 

I think  nothing  conveys  the  idea  of  undei'breeding 
more  than  this  self-betraying  smile.  Yet  I think 
this  peculiar  habit  as  well  as  that  of  meaningless 
blushing  may  be  fallen  into  by  very  good  people 
who  meet  often,  or  sit  opposite  each  other  at  table. 
A true  gentleman's  face  is  infinitely  removed  from 
all  such  paltriness,  — calm-eyed,  firm-mouthed.  I 
think  Titian  understood  the  look  of  a gentleman 
as  well  as  anybody  that  ever  lived.  The  portrait 
of  a young  man  holding  a glove  in  his  hand,  in 
the  Gallery  of  the  Louvre,  if  any  of  you  have 
seen  that  collection,  will  remind  you  of  what  I 
mean. 

Do  I think  these  people  know  the  peculiar 

look  they  have  ? — I cannot  say ; I hope  not ; I 
am  afraid  they  would  never  forgive  me,  if  they 
did.  The  worst  of  it  is,  the  trick  is  catching; 
when  one  meets  one  of  these  fellows,  he  feels  a 
tendency  to  the  same  manifestation.  The  Profes- 
sor tells  me  there  is  a muscular  slip,  a dependence 
of  the  platysma  myoides , which  is  called  the  risorius 
Santorini. 

Say  that  once  more,  — exclaimed  the  young 

fellow  mentioned  above. 

The  Professor  says  there  is  a little  fleshy  slip 
called  Santorini’s  laughing  muscle.  I would  have 
it  cut  out  of  my  face,  if  I were  born  with  one  of 
those  constitutional  grins  upon  it.  Perhaps  I am 
uncharitable  in  my  judgment  of  those  sour-look- 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


236 

ing  people  I told  you  of  the  other  day,  and  of 
these  smiling  folks.  It  may  be  that  they  are  born 
with  these  looks,  as  other  people  are  with  more 
generally  recognized  deformities.  Both  are  bad 
enough,  but  I had  rather  meet  three  of  the  scowl- 
ers  than  one  of  the  smilers. 

There  is  another  unfortunate  way  of  look- 
ing, which  is  peculiar  to  that  amiable  sex  we  do 
not  like  to  find  fault  with.  There  are  some  very 
pretty,  but,  unhappily,  very  ill-bred  women,  who 
don't  understand  the  law  of  the  road  with  regard 
to  handsome  faces.  Nature  and  custom  would,  no 
doubt,  agree  in  conceding  to  all  males  the  right  of 
at  least  two  distinct  looks  at  every  comely  female 
countenance,  without  any  infraction  of  the  rules 
of  courtesy  or  the  sentiment  of  respect.  The  first 
look  is  necessary  to  define  the  person  of  the  in- 
dividual one  meets  so  as  to  avoid  it  in  passing. 
Any  unusual  attraction  detected  in  a first  glance 
is  a sufficient  apology  for  a second,  — not  a pro- 
longed and  impertinent  stare,  but  an  appreciating 
homage  of  the  eyes,  such  as  a stranger  may  inof- 
. fensively  yield  to  a passing  image.  It  is  astonish- 
ing how  morbidly  sensitive  some  vulgar  beauties 
are  to  the  slightest  demonstration  of  this  kind. 
When  a lady  walks  the  streets,  she  leaves  her 
virtuous-indignation  countenance  at  home ; she 
knows  well  enough  that  the  street  is  a picture- 
gallery,  where  pretty  faces  framed  in  pretty  bon- 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 


*37 

nets  are  meant  to  be  seen,  and  everybody  has  a 
right  to  see  them. 

When  we  observe  how  the  same  features 

and  style  of  person  and  character  descend  from 
generation  to  generation,  we  can  believe  that  some 
inherited  weakness  may  account  for  these  peculiar- 
ities. Little  snapping-turtles  snap  — so  the  great 
naturalist  tells  us  — before  they  are  out  of  the  egg- 
shell. I am  satisfied,  that,  much  higher  up  in  the 
scale  of  life,  character  is  distinctly  shown  at  the 
age  of — 2 or  — 3 months. 

My  friend,  the  Professor,  has  been  full  of 

eggs  lately.  [This  remark  excited  a burst  of  hi- 
larity, which  I did  not  allow  to  interrupt  the  course 
of  my  obs^rations.]  He  has  been  reading  the 
great  boo^^Kre  he  found  the  fact  about  the  little 
snapping-turtles  mentioned  above.  Some  of  the 
things  he  has  told  me  have  suggested  several  odd 
analogies  enough. 

^ There  are  half  a dozen  men,  or  so,  who  carry  in 
their  brains  the  ovarian  eggs  of  the  next  genera- 
tion’s or  century’s  civilization.  These  eggs  are 
not  ready  to  be  laid  in  the  form  of  books  as  yet  ; 
some  of  them  are  hardly  ready  to  be  put  into  the 
form  of  talk.  But  as  rudimentary  ideas  or  in- 
choate tendencies,  there  they  are  ; and  these  are 
what  must  form  the  future.  A man’s  general  no- 
tions are  not  good  for  much,  unless  he  has  a crop 
of  these  intellectual  ovarian  eggs  in  his  own  brain, 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


238 

or  knows  them  as  they  exist  in  the  minds  of  oth. 
ers.  One  must  be  in  the  habit  of  talking  with 
such  persons  to  get  at  these  rudimentary  germs  of 
thought ; for  their  development  is  necessarily  im- 
perfect, and  they  are  moulded  on  new  patterns, 
which  must  be  long  and  closely  studied.  But 
these  are  the  men  to  talk  with.  No  fresh  truth 
ever  gets  into  a book. 

A good  many  fresh  lies  get  in,  anyhow,  — 

said  one  of  the  company. 

I proceeded  in  spite  of  the  interruption.  — All 
uttered  thought,  my  friend,  the  Professor,  says,  is 
of  the  nature  of  an  excretion.  Its  materials  have 
been  taken  in,  and  have  acted  upon  the  system, 
and  been  reacted  on  by  it ; it  has  j^^ilated  and 
done  its  office  in  one  mind  before  lP^F^iven  out 
for  the  benefit  of  others.  It  may  be  milk  or  ven- 
om to  other  minds  ; but,  in  either  case,  it  is  some- 
thing which  the  producer  has  had  the  use  of  and 
can  part  with.  A man  instinctively  tries  to  g5t 
lid  of  his  thought  in  conversation  or  in  print  so 
soon  as  it  is  matured ; but  it  is  hard  to  get  at  it 
as  it  lies  imbedded,  a mere  potentiality,  the  germ 
of  a germ,  in  his  intellect. 

Where  are  the  brains  that  are  fullest  of 

these  ovarian  eggs  of  thought  ? — I decline  men- 
tioning individuals.  The  producers  of  thought, 
who  are  few,  the  “ jobbers”  of  thought,  who  are 
many,  and  the  retailers  of  thought,  who  are  num- 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


239 

berless,  are  so  mixed  up  in  the  popular  appre- 
hension, that  it  would  be  hopeless  to  try  to  sepa- 
rate them  before  opinion  has  had  time  to  settle. 
Follow  the  course  of  opinion  on  the  great  subjects 
of  human  interest  for  a few  generations  or  cen- 
turies, get  its  parallax,  map  out  a small  arc  of  its 
movement,  see  where  it  tends,  and  then  see  who 
is  in  advance  of  it  or  even  with  it ; the  world 
calls  him  hard  names,  probably  ; but  if  you  would 
find  the  ova  of  the  future,  you  must  look  into  the 
folds  of  his  cerebral  convolutions. 

[The  divinity-student  looked  a little  puzzled  at 
this  suggestion,  as  if  he  did  not  see  exactly  where 
he  was  to  come  out,  if  he  computed  his  arc  too 
nicely.  I think  it  possible  it  might  cut  off  a few 
corners  of  his  present  belief,  as  it  has  cut  off  mar- 
tyr-burning and  witch-hanging ; — but  time  will 
show,  — time  will  show,  as  the  old  gentleman 
opposite  says.] 

0, — here  is  that  copy  of  verses  I told 

you  about. 

SPRING  HAS  COME. 

Intra  Muros . 

The  sunbeams,  lost  for  half  a year, 

Slant  through  my  pane  their  morniug  rays  , 

For  dry  Northwesters  cold  and  clear, 

The  East  blows  in  its  thin  blue  haze. 

And  first  the  snowdrop’s  bells  are  seen. 

Then  close  against  the  sheltering  wall 
The  tulip’s  horn  of  dusky  green, 

The  peony’s  dark  unfolding  ball. 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


The  golden-chaliced  crocus  burns  •, 

The  long  narcissus-blades  appear ; 

The  cone-beaked  hyacinth  returns, 

And  lights  her  blue-flamed  chandelier. 


The  willow’s  whistling  lashes,  wruhg 
By  the  wild  winds  of  gusty  March, 
With  sallow  leaflets  lightly  strung, 
Are  swaying  by  the  tufted  larch. 


The  elms  have  robed  their  slender  spray 
With  full-blown  flower  and  embryo  leaf  5 
Wide  o’er  the  clasping  arch  of  day 
Soars  like  a cloud  their  hoary  chief. 


[See  the  proud  tulip’s  flaunting  cup, 

That  flames  in  glory  for  an  hour, — 
Behold  it  withering,  — then  look  up,  — 

How  meek  the  forest-monarch’s  flower  ! — 


When  wake  the  violets,  Winter  dies  ; 

When  sprout  the  elm-buds,  Spring  is  near 
When  lilacs  blossom,  Summer  cries, 

“ Bud,  little  roses  ! Spring  is  here  ! ”] 


The  windows  blush  with  fresh  bouquets, 
Cut  with  the  May-dew  on  their  lips  *, 
The  radish  all  its  bloom  displays, 

Pink  as  Aurora’s  finger-tips. 


Nor  less  the  flood  of  light  that  showers 
On  beauty’s  changed  corolla-shades,  — 
The  walks  are  gay  as  bridal  bowers 
With  rows  of  many-petalled  maids. 


The  scarlet  shell-fish  click  and  clash 
In  the  blue  barrow  where  they  slide  5 
The  horseman,  proud  of  streak  and  splash, 
Creeps  homeward  from  his  morning  ride. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


241 


Here  comes  the  dealer’s  awkward  string, 
With  neck  in  rope  and  tail  in  knot, — 
Rough  colts,  with  careless  country-swing, 
In  lazy  walk  or  slouching  trot. 

Wild  filly  from  the  mountain-side, 

Doomed  to  the  close  and  chafing  thills, 
Lend  me  thy  long,  untiring  stride 
To  seek  with  thee  thy  western  hills  ! 

I hear  the  whispering  voice  of  Spring, 

The  thrush’s  trill,  the  cat-bird’s  cry, 
Like  some  poor  bird  with  prisoned  wing 
That  sits  and  sings,  but  longs  to  fly. 

0 for  one  spot  of  living  green,  — 

One  little  spot  where  leaves  can  grow,  — » 
To  love  unblamed,  to  walk  unseen, 

To  dream  above,  to  sleep  below  l 

16 


« 


242 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


IX. 

QUI  esta  encerrada  el  alma  del  licenciado 
Pedro  Garcias . 

If  I should  ever  make  a little  book 
out  of  these  papers,  which  I hope  you 
are  not  getting  tired  of,  I suppose  I ought  to  save 
the  above  sentence  for  a motto  on  the  title-page. 
But  I want  it  now,  and  must  use  it.  I need  not 
say  to  you  that  the  words  are  Spanish,  nor  that 
they  are  to  be  found  in  the  short  Introduction 
to  “ Gil  Bias/’  nor  that  they  mean,  “ Here  lies 
buried  the  soul  of  the  licentiate  Pedro  Garcias.” 

I warned  all  young  people  off  the  premises 
when  I began  my  notes  referring  to  old  age.  I 
must  be  equally  fair  with  old  people  now.  They 
are  earnestly  requested  to  leave  this  paper  to 
young  persons  from  the  age  of  twelve  to  that  of 
fourscore  years  and  ten,  at  which  latter  period 
of  life  I am  sure  that  I shall  have  at  least  one 
youthful  reader.  You  know  well  enough  what  I 
mean  by  youth  and  age  ; — something  in  the  soul, 
which  has  no  more  to  do  with  the  color  of  the 
hair  than  the  vein  of  gold  in  a rock  has  to  do 
with  the  grass  a thousand  feet  above  it. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  243 

I am  growing  bolder  as  I write.  I think  it 
requires  not  only  youth,  but  genius,  to  read  this 
paper.  I don’t  mean  to  imply  that  it  require! 
any  whatsoever  to  talk  what  I have  here  written 
down.  It  did  demand  a certain  amount  of  mem- 
ory, and  such  command  of  the  English  tongue 
as  is  given  by  a common  school  education.  So 
much  I do  claim.  But  here  I have  related,  at 
length,  a string  of  trivialities.  You  must  have 
the  imagination  of  a poet  to  transfigure  them. 
These  little  colored  patches  are  stains  upon  the 
windows  of  a human  soul ; stand  on  the  outside, 
they  are  but  dull  and  meaningless  spots  of  color ; 
seen  from  within,  they  are  glorified  shapes  with 
empurpled  wings  and  sunbright  aureoles. 

My  hand  trembles  when  I offer  you  this. 
Many  times  I have  come  bearing  flowers  such  as 
my  garden  grew ; but  now  I offer  you  this  poor, 
brown,  homely  growth,  you  may  cast  it  away  as 
worthless.  And  yet  — and  yet  — it  is  something 
better  than  flowers ; it  is  a seed-capsule.  Many  a 
gardener  will  cut  you  a bouquet  of  his  choicest 
blossoms  for  small  fee,  but  he  does  not  love  to  let 
the  seeds  of  his  rarest  varieties  go  out  of  his  own 
hands. 

It  is  by  little  things  that  we  know  ourselves ; a 
soul  would  very  probably  mistake  itself  for  an- 
other, when  once  disembodied,  were  it  not  for 
individual  experiences  which  differ  from  those  of 


2 44 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


others  only  in  details  seemingly  trifling.  All  of 
us  have  been  thirsty  thousands  of  times,  and  felt, 
with  Pindar,  that  water  was  the  best  of  things. 
I alone,  as  I think,  of  all  mankind,  remember  one 
particular  pailful  of  water,  flavored  with  the  white- 
pine  of  which  the  pail  was  made,  and  the  brown 
mug  out  of  which  one  Edmund,  a red-faced  and 
curly-haired  boy,  was  averred  to  have  bitten  a 
fragment  in  his  haste  to  drink ; it  being  then  high 
summer,  and  little  full-blooded  boys  feeling  very 
warm  and  porous  in  the  low-“  studded  ” school- 
room where  Dame  Prentiss,  dead  and  gone,  ruled 
over  young  children,  many  of  whom  are  old 
ghosts  now,  and  have  known  Abraham  for  twenty 
or  thirty  years  of  our  mortal  time. 

Thirst  belongs  to  humanity,  everywhere,  in  all 
ages  ; but  that  white-pine  pail,  and  that  brown 
mug  belong  to  me  in  particular ; and  just  so  of 
my  special  relationships  with  other  things  and 
with  my  race.  One  could  never  remember  him- 
self in  eternity  by  the  mere  fact  of  having  loved 
or  hated  any  more  than  by  that  of  having  thirsted  ; 
love  and  hate  have  no  more  individuality  in  them 
than  single  waves  in  the  ocean ; — hut  the  acci- 
dents or  trivial  marks  which  distinguished  those 
whom  we  loved  or  hated  make  their  memory  our 
own  forever,  and  with  it  that  of  our  own  person- 
ality also. 

Therefore,  my  aged  friend  of  five-and-twenty, 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


245 

or  thereabouts,  pause  at  the  threshold  of  this  par- 
ticular record,  and  ask  yourself  seriously  whether 
you  are  fit  to  read  such  revelations  as  are  to  fol- 
low. For  observe,  you  have  here  no  splendid  ar- 
ray of  petals  such  as  poets  offer  you,  — nothing 
but  a dry  shell,  containing,  if  you  will  get  out 
what  is  in  it,  a few  small  seeds  of  poems.  You 
may  laugh  at  them,  if  you  like.  I shall  never  tell 
you  what  I think  of  you  for  so  doing.  But  if 
you  can  read  into  the  heart  of  these  things,  in  the 
light  of  other  memories  as  slight,  yet  as  dear  to 
your  soul,  then  you  are  neither  more  nor  less  than 
a Poet,  and  can  afford  to  write  no  more  verses 
during  the  rest  of  your  natural  life,  — which  ab- 
stinence I take  to  be  one  of  the  surest  marks  of 
your  meriting  the  divine  name  I have  just  be- 
stowed upon  you. 

May  I beg  of  you  who  have  begun  this  paper, 
nobly  trusting  to  your  own  imagination  and  sensi- 
bilities to  give  it  the  significance  which  it  does  not 
lay  claim  to  without  your  kind  assistance,  — may 
I beg  of  you,  I say,  to  pay  particular  attention  to 
the  brackets  which  enclose  certain  paragraphs  ? I 
want  my  “asides,”  you  see,  to  whisper  loud  to 
you  who  read  my  notes,  and  sometimes  I talk  a 
page  or  two  to  you  without  pretending  that  I said 
a word  of  it  to  our  boarders.  You  will  find  a 
very  long  “ aside  ” to  you  almost  as  soon  as  you 
begin  to  read.  And  so,  dear  young  friend,  fall  to 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


246 

at  once,  taking  such  things  as  I have  provided  for 
you  ; and  if  you  turn  them,  by  the  aid  of  your 
powerful  imagination,  into  a fair  banquet,  why, 
then,  peace  be  with  you,  and  a summer  by  the 
still  waters  of  some  quiet  river,  or  by  some  yellow 
beach,  where,  as  my  friend  the  Professor,  says, 
you  can  sit  with  Nature’s  wrist  in  your  hand  and 
count  her  ocean-pulses.] 

I should  like  to  make  a few  intimate  revelations 
relating  especially  to  my  early  life,  if  I thought 
you  would  like  to  hear  them. 

[The  schoolmistress  turned  a little  in  her  chair, 
and  sat  with  her  face  directed  partly  towards  me. 
— Half-mourning  now  ; — purple  ribbon.  That 
breastpin  she  wears  has  gray  hair  in  it ; her  moth- 
er’s, no  doubt ; — I remember  our  landlady’s 
daughter  telling  me,  soon  after  the  schoolmis- 
tress came  to  board  with  us,  that  she  had  lately 
“ buried  a payrent.”  That ’s  what  made  her  look 
so  pale,  — kept  the  poor  dying  thing  alive  with 
her  own  blood.  Ah  ! long  illness  is  the  real  vam- 
pyrism ; think  of  living  a year  or  two  after  one  is 
dead,  by  sucking  the  life-blood  out  of  a frail  young 
creature  at  one’s  bedside  ! Well,  souls  grow  white, 
as  well  as  cheeks,  in  these  holy  duties ; one  that 
goes  in  a nurse,  may  come  out  an  angel.  — God 
bless  all  good  women!' — to  their  soft  hands  and 

pitying  hearts  we  must  all  come  at  last ! The 

schoolmistress  has  a better  color  than  when  she 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  247 

came. Too  late  ! “ It  might  have  been.” 

Amen ! 

How  many  thoughts  go  to  a dozen  heart- 
beats, sometimes ! There  was  no  long  pause  after 
my  remark  addressed  to  the  company,  but  in  that 
time  I had  the  train  of  ideas  and  feelings  I have 
just  given  flash  through  my  consciousness  sudden 
and  sharp  as  the  crooked  red  streak  that  springs 
out  of  its  black  sheath  like  the  creese  of  a Malay 
in  his  death-race,  and  stabs  the  earth  right  and  left 
in  its  blind  rage. 

I don’t  deny  that  there  was  a pang  in  it, — 
yes,  a stab  ; but  there  was  a prayer,  too,  — the 
“ Amen  ” belonged  to  that.  — Also,  a vision  of 
a four-story  brick  house,  nicely  furnished,  — I ac- 
tually saw  many  specific  articles,  — curtains,  sofas, 
tables,  and  others,  and  could  draw  the  patterns  of 
them  at  this  moment,  — a brick  house,  I say,  look- 
ing out  on  the  water,  with  a fair  parlor,  and  books 
and  busts  and  pots  of  flowers  and  bird-cages,  all 
complete ; and  at  the  window,  looking  on  the  wa- 
ter, two  of  us.  — “ Male  and  female  created  He 
them.”  — These  two  were  standing  at  the  window, 
when  a smaller  shape  that  was  playing  near  them 

looked  up  at  me  with  such  a look  that  I 

poured  out  a glass  of  water,  drank  it  all  down, 
and  then  continued.] 

I said  I should  like  to  tell  you  some  things,  such 
as  people  commonly  never  tell',  about  my  early  rec- 
ollections. Should  you  like  to  hear  them  ? 


248  THE  AUTOCRAT 

Should  we  like  to  hear  them  ? — said  the  school- 
mistress ; — no,  but  we  should  love  to. 

[The  voice  was  a sweet  one,  naturally,  and  had 
Something  very  pleasant  in  its  tone,  just  then.  — 
The  four-story  brick  house,  which  had  gone  out 
like  a transparency  when  the  light  behind  it  is 
quenched,  glimmered  again  for  a moment ; parlor, 
books,  busts,  flower-pots,  bird-cages,  all  complete, 
— and  the  figures  as  before.] 

We  are  waiting  with  eagerness,  sir,  — said  the 
divinity-student. 

[The  transparency  went  out  as  if  a flash  of  black 
lightning  had  struck  it.] 

If  you  want  to  hear  my  confessions,  the  next 
thing  — I said  — is  to  know  whether  I can  trust 
you  with  them.  It  is  only  fair  to  say  that  there 
are  a great  many  people  in  the  world  that  laugh 
at  such  things.  I think  they  are  fools,  but  per- 
haps you  don’t  all  agree  with  me. 

Here  are  children  of  tender  age  talked  to  as  if 
they  were  capable  of  understanding  Calvin’s  “ In- 
stitutes,” and  nobody  has  honesty  or  sense  enough 
to  tell  the  plain  truth  about  the  little  wretches  : 
that  they  are  as  superstitious  as  naked  savages, 
and  such  miserable  spiritual  cowards  — that  is,  if 
they  have  any  imagination  — that  they  will  believe 
anything  which  is  taught  them,  and  a great  deal 
more  which  they  teach  themselves. 

I was  born  and  bred,  as  I have  told  you  twenty 


OF  THE  BREA KFA8  T-  TABLE.  249 

times,  among  books  and  those  who  knew  what  was 
in  books.  I was  carefully  instructed  in  things 
temporal  and  spiritual.  But  up  to  a considerable 
maturity  of  childhood  I believed  Raphael  and  Mi- 
chael Angelo  to  have  been  superhuman  beings. 
The  central  doctrine  of  the  prevalent  religious 
faith  of  Christendom  was  utterly  confused  and  neu- 
tralized in  my  mind  for  years  by  one  of  those  too 
common  stories  of  actual  life,  which  I overheard 
repeated  in  a whisper.  — Why  did  I not  ask  ? you 
will  say.  — You  don’t  remember  the  rosy  pudency 
of  sensitive  children.  The  first  instinctive  move- 
ment of  the  little  creatures  is  to  make  a cache,  and 
bury  in  it  beliefs,  doubts,  dreams,  hopes,  and  ter 
rors.  I am  uncovering  one  of  these  caches.  Do 
you  think  I was  necessarily  a greater  fool  and 
coward  than  another  ? 

I was  afraid  of  ships.  Why,  I could  never  tell. 
The  masts  looked  frightfully  tall,  — but  they  were 
not  so  tall  as  the  steeple  of  our  old  yellow  meet- 
ing-house. At  any  rate  I used  to  hide  my  eyes 
from  the  sloops  and  schooners  that  were  wont  to 
lie  at  the  end  of  the  bridge,  and  I confess  that 
traces  of  this  undefined  terror  lasted  very  long.  — 
One  other  source  of  alarm  had  a still  more  fearful 
significance.  There  was  a great  wooden  hand,  — 
a glove-maker’s  sign,  which  used  to  swing  and  creak 
«n  the  blast,  as  it  hung  from  a pillar  before  a cer- 
tain shop  a mile  or  two  outside  of  the  city.  Oh, 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


250 

the  dreadful  hand  ! Always  hanging  there  ready 
to  catch  up  a little  hoy,  who  would  come  home  to 
supper  no  more,  nor  yet  to  bed,  — whose  porringer 
would  be  laid  away  empty  thenceforth,  and  his 
half-worn  shoes  wait  until  his  small  brother  grew 
to  fit  them. 

As  for  all  manne  j of  superstitious  observances, 
I used  once  to  think  I must  have  been  peculiar  in 
having  such  a list  of  them,  but  I now  believe  that 
half  the  children  of  the  same  age  go  through  the 
same  experiences.  No  Roman  soothsayer  ever  had 
such  a catalogue  of  omens  as  I found  in  the  Sibyl- 
line leaves  of  my  childhood.  That  trick  of  throw- 
ing a stone  at  a tree  and  attaching  some  mighty 
issue  to  hitting  or  missing,  which  you  will  find 
mentioned  in  one  or  more  biographies,  I well  re- 
member. Stepping  on  or  over  certain  particular 
things  or  spots,  — Dr.  Johnson’s  especial  weak- 
ness, — I got  the  habit  of  at  a very  early  age.  — I 
won’t  swear  that  I have  not  some  tendency  to 
these  not  wise  practices  even  at  this  present  date 
[How  many  of  you  that  read  these  notes  can  say 
the  same  thing  ! ] 

With  these  follies  mingled  sweet  delusions, 
which  I loved  so  well  I would  not  outgrow  them, 
even  when  it  required  a voluntary  effort  to  put  a 
momentary  trust  in  them.  Here  is  one  which  I 
cannot  help  telling  you. 

The  firing  of  the  great  guns  at  the  Navy-yard 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


2CI 


is  easily  heard  at  the  place  where  I was  born  and 
lived.  “ There  is  a ship  of  war  come  in,”  they 
used  to  say,  when  they  heard  them.  Of  course,  I 
supposed  that  such  vessels  came  in  unexpectedly, 
after  indefinite  years  of  absence,  — suddenly  as 
hilling  stones ; and  that  the  great  guns  roared  in 
their  astonishment  and  delight  at  the  sight  of  the 
old  war-ship  splitting  the  bay  with  her  cutwater. 
Now,  the  sloop-of-war  the  Wasp,  Captain  Blakely, 
after  gloriously  capturing  the  Reindeer  and  the 
Avon,  had  disappeared  from  the  face  of  the  ocean, 
and  was  supposed  to  be  lost.  But  there  was  no 
proof  of  it,  and,  of  course,  for  a time,  hopes  were 
entertained  that  she  might  be  heard  from.  Long 
after  the  last  real  chance  had  utterly  vanished,  I 
pleased  myself  ivith  the  fond  illusion  that  some- 
where on  the  waste  of  waters  she  was  still  floating, 
and  there  were  years  during  which  I never  heard 
the  sound  of  the  great  guns  booming  inland  from 
the  Navy-yard  without  saying  to  myself,  “ The 
Wasp  has  come  ! ” and  almost  thinking  I could 
see  her,  as  she  rolled  in,  crumpling  the  water  be- 
fore her,  weather-beaten,  barnacled,  with  shattered 
spars  and  threadbare  canvas,  welcomed  by  the 
shouts  and  tears  of  thousands.  This  was  one  of 
those  dreams  that  I nursed  and  never  told.  Let 
me  make  a clean  breast  of  it  now,  and  say,  that, 
so  late  as  to  have  outgrown  childhood,  perhaps  to 
have  got  far  on  towards  manhood,  when  the  roar 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


252 

of  the  cannon  has  struck  suddenly  on  my  ear,  1 
have  started  with  a thrill  of  vague  expectation  and 
tremulous  delight,  and  the  long-unspoken  words 
have  articulated  themselves  in  the  mind’s  dumb 
whisper,  The  Wasp  has  come ! 

Yes,  children  believe  plenty  of  queer  things. 

I suppose  all  of  you  have  had  the  pocket-book  fe- 
rer  when  you  were  little  ? — What  do  I mean  ? 
Why,  ripping  up  old  pocket-books  in  the  firm  be' 
lief  that  bank-bills  to  an  immense  amount  were 
hidden  in  them.  — So,  too,  you  must  all  remem- 
ber some  splendid  unfulfilled  promise  of  somebody 
or  other,  which  fed  you  with  hopes  perhaps  for 
years,  and  which  left  a blank  in  your  life  which 
nothing  has  ever  filled  up.  — O.  T.  quitted  our 
household,  carrying  with  him  the  passionate  re- 
grets of  the  more  youthful  members.  He  was  an 
ingenious  youngster ; wrote  wonderful  copies,  and 
carved  the  two  initials  given  above  with  great  skill 
on  all  available  surfaces.  . I thought,  by  the  way, 
they  were  all  gone ; but  the  other  day  I found 
them  on  a certain  door  which  I will  show  you 
some  time.  How  it  surprised  me  to  find  them  so 
near  the  ground  ! I had  thought  the  boy  of  no 
trivial  dimensions.  Well,  O.  T.,  when  he  went, 
made  a solemn  promise  to  two  of  us.  I was  to 
have  a ship,  and  the  other  a martm-house  (last 
syllable  pronounced  as  in  the  word  tin).  Neither 
ever  came  ; but,  0 how  many  and  many  a time  1 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  253 

have  stolen  to  the  corner,  — the  cars  pass  close 
by  it  at  this  time,  — and  looked  up  that  long 
avenue,  thinking  that  he  must  be  coming  now  ah 
most  sure,  as  I turned  to  look  northward,  that 
there  he  would  be,  trudging  toward  me,  the  ship 
in  one  hand  and.  the  martm-house  in  the  other  ! 

[You  must  not  suppose  that  all  I am  going  to 
say,  as  well  as  all  I have  said,  was  told  to  the 
wnole  company.  The  young  fellow  whom  they 
call  John  was  in  the  yard,  sitting  on  a barrel  and 
smoking  a cheroot,  the  fumes  of  which  came  in,  not 
ungrateful,  through  the  open  window.  The  divin- 
ity-student disappeared  in  the  midst  of  our  talk. 
The  poor  relation  in  black  bombazine,  who  looked 
and  moved  as  if  all  her  articulations  were  elbow- 
joints,  had  gone  off  to  her  chamber,  after  waiting 
with  a look  of  soul-subduing  decorum  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs  until  one  of  the  male  sort  had  passed 
her  and  ascended  into  the  upper  regions.  This  is 
a famous  point  of  etiquette  in  our  boarding-house  ; 
in  fact,  between  ourselves,  they  make  such  an  aw- 
ful fuss  about  it,  that  I,  for  one,  had  a great  deal 
rather  have  them  simple  enough  not  to  think  of 
such  matters  at  all.  Our  landlady's  daughter 
said,  the  other  evening,  that  she  was  going  to 
“ retire  ” ; whereupon  the  young  fellow  called 
John  took  ftp  a lamp  and  insisted  on  lighting  her 
to  the  foot  of  the  staircase.  Nothing  would  induce 
her  to  pass  b>  him,  until  the  schoolmistress,  say- 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


254 

ing  in  good  plain  English  that  it  was  her  bedtime 
walked  straight  by  them  both,  and  not  seeming  to 
trouble  herself  about  either  of  them. 

I have  been  led  away  from  what  I meant  the 
portion  included  in  these  brackets  to  inform  my 
readers  about.  I say,  then,  most  of  the  boarders 
bad  left  the  table  about  the  time  when  I began 
telling  some  of  these  secrets  of  mine,  — all  of  them, 
in  . fact,  but  the  old  gentleman  opposite  and  the 
schoolmistress.  I understand  why  a young  woman 
should  like  to  hear  these  simple  but  genuine  ex- 
periences of  early  life,-  which  are,  as  I have  said, 
the  little  brown  seeds  of  what  may  yet  grow  to  be 
poems  with  leaves  of  azure  and  gold ; but  when 
the  old  gentleman  pushed  up  his  chair  nearer  to 
me,  and  slanted  round  his  best  ear,  and  once, 
when  I was  speaking  of  some  trifling,  tender  rem- 
iniscence, drew  a long  breath,  with  such  a tremor 
in  it  that  a little  more  and  it  would  have  been  a 
sob,  why,  then  I felt  there  must  be  something  of 
nature  in  them  which  redeemed  their  seeming  in- 
significance. Tell  me,  man  or  woman  with  whom 
I am  whispering,  have  you  not  a small  store  of 
recollections,  such  as  these  I am  uncovering,  bur- 
ied beneath  the  dead  leaves  of  many  summers,  per- 
haps under  the  unmelting  snows  of  fast-returning 
winters,  — a few  such  recollections,  which,  if  you 
should  write  them  all  out,  would  be  swept  into 
some  careless  editor’s  drawer,  and  might  cost  a 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  255 

scanty  half-hour’s  lazy  reading  to  his  subscribers, 
— and  yet,  if  Death  should  cheat  you  of  them,  you 
would  not  know  yourself  in  eternity  ?] 

1 made  three  acquaintances  at  a very  ear- 
ly period  of  life,  my  introduction  to  whom  was 
never  forgotten.  The  first  unequivocal  act  of 
wrong  that  has  left  its  trace  in  my  memory  was 
this  ; refusing  a small  favor  asked  of  me,  — noth- 
ing more  than  telling  what  had  happened  at  school 
one  morning.  No  matter  who  asked  it ; but  there 
were  circumstances  which  saddened  and  awed  me. 
I had  no  heart  to  speak ; — I faltered  some  miser- 
able, perhaps  petulant  excuse,  stole  away,  and  the 
first  battle  of  life  was  lost.  What  remorse  fol- 
lowed I need  not  tell.  Then  and  there,  to  the 
best  of  my  knowledge,  I first  consciously  took  Sin 
by  the  hand  and  turned  my  back  on  Duty.  Time 
has  led  me  to  look  upon  my  offence  more  lenient- 
ly; I do  not  believe  it  or  any  other  childish  wrong 
is  infinite,  as  some  have  pretended,  but  infinitely 
finite.  Yet,  O if  1 had  but  won  that  battle ! 

The  great  Destroyer,  whose  awful  shadow  it 
was  that  had  silenced  me,  came  near  me,  — but 
never,  so  as  to  be  distinctly  seen  and  remembered, 
during  my  tender  years.  There  flits  dimly  before 
me  the  image  of  a little  girl,  whose  name  even  I 
have  forgotten,  a schoolmate  whom  we  missed  one 
day,  and  were  told  that  she  had  died.  But  what 
death  was  I never  had  any  very  distinct  idea,  un- 


TIIE  AUTOCRAT 


256 

til  one  day  I climbed  the  low  stone  wall  of  the  old 
burial-ground  and  mingled  with  a group  that  were 
looking  into  a very  deep,  long,  narrow  hole,  dug 
down  through  the  green  sod,  down  through  the 
brown  loam,  down  through  the  yellow  gravel,  and 
there  at  the  bottom  was  an  oblong  red  box,  and  a 
still,  sharp,  white  face  of  a young  man  seen  through 
an  opening  at  one  end  of  it.  When  the  lid  was 
closed,  and  the  gravel  and  stones  rattled  down  pell- 
mell,  and  the  woman  in  black,  who  was  crying 
and  wringing  her  hands,  went  off  with  the  other 
mourners,  and  left  him,  then  I felt  that  I had  seen 
Death,  and  should  never  forget  him. 

One  other  acquaintance  I made  at  an  earlier  pe- 
riod of  life  than  the  habit  of  romancers  authorizes, 
— Love,  of  course.  — She  was  a famous  beauty 
afterwards.  — I am  satisfied  that  many  children 
rehearse  their  parts  in  the  drama  of  life  before  they 
have  shed  all  their  milk-teeth.  — I think  I won't 
tell  the  story  of  the  golden  blonde.  — I suppose 
everybody  has  had  his  childish  fancies ; but  some- 
times they  are  passionate  impulses,  which  antici- 
pate all  the  tremulous  emotions  belonging  to  a 
later  period.  Most  children  remember  seeing  and 
adoring  an  angel  before  they  were  a dozen  years 
old. 

[The  old  gentleman  had  left  his  chair  opposite 
and  taken  a seat  by  the  schoolmistress  and  myself, 
a little  way  from  the  table.  — It ’s  true,  it 's  true, 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


257 

said  the  old  gentleman.  — He  took  hold  of  a steel 
watch-chain,  which  carried  a large,  square  gold 
key  at  one  end  and  was  supposed  to  have  some 
kind  of  timekeeper  at  the  other.  With  some 
trouble  he  dragged  up  an  ancient-looking,  thick, 
silver,  bull’s-eye  watch.  He  looked  at  it  for  a 
moment, — hesitated,  — > touched  the  inner  corner 
of  his  right  eye  with  the  pulp  of  his  middle  finger, 

— looked  at  the  face  of  the  watch,  — said  it  was 
getting  into  the  forenoon,  — then  opened  the  watch 
and  handed  me  the  loose  outside  case  without  a 
word.  — The  watch-paper  had  been  pink  once,  and 
had  a faint  tinge  still,  as  if  all  its  tender  life  had 
not  yet  quite  faded  out.  Two  little  birds,  a flower, 
and,  in  small  school-girl  letters,  a date, — 17  . . 

— no  matter.  — Before  I was  thirteen  years  old,  — 

said  the  old  gentleman. 1 don’t  know  what 

was  in  that  young  schoolmistress’s  head,  nor  why 
she  should  have  done  it ; but  she  took  out  the 
watch-paper  and  put  it  softly  to  her  lips,  as  if  she 
were  kissing  the  poor  thing  that  made  it  so  long 
ago.  The  old  gentleman  took  the  watch-paper  care- 
fully from  her,  replaced  it,  turned  away  and  walked 
out,  holding  the  watch  in  his  hand.  I saw  him  pass 
the  window  a moment  after  with  that  foolish  white 
hat  on  his  head  ; he  could  n’t  have  been  thinking 
what  he  was  about  when  he  put  it  on.  So  the 
schoolmistress  and  I were  left  alone.  I drew  my 
chair  a shade  nearer  to  her,  and  continued.] 


17 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


258 

And  since  I am  talking  of  early  recollections,  I 
don’t  know  why  I should  n’t  mention  some  others 
that  still  cling  to  me,  — not  that  you  will  attach 
any  very  particular  meaning  to  these  same  images 
so  full  of  significance  to  me,  but  that  you  will  find 
something  parallel  to  them  in  your  own  memory. 
You  remember,  perhaps,  what  I said  one  day 
about  smells.  There  were  certain  sounds^  also 
which  had  a mysterious  suggestiveness  to  me, 
— not  so  intense,  perhaps,  as  that  connected  with 
the  other  sense,  but  yet  peculiar,  and  never  to  be 
forgotten. 

The  first  was  the  creaking  of  the  wood-sleds, 
bringing  their  loads  of  oak  and  walnut  from  the 
country,  as  the  slow-swinging  oxen  trailed  them 
along  over  the  complaining  snow,  in  the  cold, 
brown  light  of  early  morning.  Lying  in  bed  and 
listening  to  their  dreary  music  had  a pleasure  in  it 
akin  to  the  Lucretian  luxury,  or  that  which  Byron 
speaks  of  as  to  be  enjoyed  in  looking  on  at  a 
battle  by  one  “ who  hath  no  friend,  no  brother 
there.” 

There  was  another  sound,  in  itself  so  sweet,  and 
so  connected  with  one  of  those  simple  and  curious 
superstitions  of  childhood  of  which  I have  spoken, 
that  I can  never  cease  to  cherish  a sad  sort  of 
love  for  it.  — Let  me  tell  the  superstitious  fancy 
first.  The  Puritan  “ Sabbath,”  as  everybody 
knows,  began  at  “ sundown  ” on  Saturday  even- 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


259 

ing.  To  such  observance  of  it  I was  born  and 
bred.  As  the  large,  round  disk  of  day  declined,  a 
stillness,  a solemnity,  a somewhat  melancholy 
hush  came  over  us  all.  It  was  time  for  work  to 
cease,  and  for  playthings  to  be  put  away.  The 
world  of  active,  life  passed  into  the  shadow  of  an 
eclipse,  not  to  emerge  until  the  sun  should  sink 
again  beneath  the  horizon. 

It  was  in  this  stillness  of  the  world  without  and 
of  the  soul  within  that  the  pulsating  lullaby  of  the 
evening  crickets  used  to  make  itself  most  distinctly 
heard,  — so  that  I well  remember  I used  to  think 
that  the  purring  of  these  little  creatures,  which 
mingled  with  the  batrachian  hymns  from  the 
neighboring  swamp,  was  peculiar  to  Saturday 
evenings.  I don’t  know  that  anything  could  give 
a clearer  idea  of  the  quieting  an^  subduing  effect 
of  the  old  habit  of  observance  of  what  was  consid- 
ered holy  time,  than  this  strange,  childish  fancy. 

Yes,  and  there  was  still  another  sound  which 
mingled  its  solemn  cadences  with  the  waking  and 
sleeping  dreams  of  my  boyhood.  It  was  heard 
only  at  times,  — a deep,  muffled  roar,  which  rose 
and  fell,  not  loud,  but  vast,  — a whistling  boy 
would  have  drowned  it  for  his  next  neighbor,  but 
it  must  have  been  heard  over  the  space  of  a hun- 
dred square  miles.  I used  to  wonder  what  this 
might  be.  Could  it  be  the  roar  of  the  thousand 
wheels  and  the  ten  thousand  footsteps  jarring  and 


26o 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


trampling  along  the  stones  of  the  neighboring  city  ? 
That  would  be  continuous  ; but  this,  as  I have 
said,  rose  and  fell  in  regular  rhythm.  I remem- 
ber being  told,  and  I suppose  this  to  have  been 
the  true  solution,  that  it  was  the  sound  of  the 
waves,  after  a high  wind,  breaking  on  the  long 
oeaches  many  miles  distant.  I should  really  like 
to  know  whether  any  observing  people  living  ten 
miles,  more  or  less,  inland  from  long  beaches,  — 
in  such  a town,  for  instance,  as  Cantabridge,  in 
the  eastern  part  of  the  Territory  of  the  Massachu- 
setts, — have  ever  observed  any  such  sound,  and 
whether  it  was  rightly  accounted  for  as  above. 

Mingling  with  these  inarticulate  sounds  in  the 
Sow  murmur  of  memory,  are  the  echoes  of  certain 
voices  I have  heard  at  rare  intervals.  I grieve  to 
^ay  it,  hut  our  people,  I think,  have  not  generally 
agreeable  voices.  The  marrowy  organisms,  with 
skins  that  shed  water  like  the  backs  of  ducks,  with 
smooth  surfaces  neatly  padded  beneath,  and  velvet 
linings  to  their  singing  pipes,  are  not  so  common 
among  us  as  that  other  pattern  of  humanity  with 
angular  outlines  and  plane  surfaces,  arid  integu- 
ments, hair  like  the  fibrous  covering  of  a cocoa-nut 
in  gloss  and  suppleness  as  well  as  color,  and  voices 
at  once  thin  and  strenuous,  — acidulous  enough 
to  produce  effervescence  with  alkalis,  and  stridu- 
lous  enough  to  sing  duets  with  the  katydids.  1 
think  our  conversational  soprano,  as  sometimes 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  261 


overheard  in  the  cars,  arising  from  a group  of 
young  persons,  who  may  have  taken  the  train  at 
one  of  our  great  industrial  centres,  for  instance, — - 
young  persons  of  the  female  sex,  we  will  say,  who 
have  bustled  in  full-dressed,  engaged  in  loud  stri- 
dent speech,  and  who,  after  free  discussion,  have 
fixed  on  two  or  more  double  seats,  which  having 
secured,  they  proceed  to  eat  apples  and  hand 
round  daguerrotypes,  — I say,  I think  the  con- 
versational soprano,  heard  under  these  circum- 
stances, would  not  be  among  the  allurements  the 
old  Enemy  would  put  in  requisition,  were  he  get- 
ting up  a new  temptation  of  St.  Anthony. 

There  are  sweet  voices  among  us,  we  all  know, 
and  -voices  not  musical,  it  may  be,  to  those  who 
hear  them  for  the  first  time,  yet  sweeter  to  us  than 
any  we  shall  hear  until  we  listen  to  some  warbling 
angel  in  the  overture  to  that  eternity  of  blissful 
harmonies  we  hope  to  enjoy.  — But  why  should  I 
tell  lies  1 If  my  friends  love  me,  it  is  because  I 
try  to  tell  the  truth.  I never  heard  but  two 
voices  in  my  life  that  frightened  me  by  their 
sweetness. 

Frightened  you  ? — said  the  schoolmis- 
tress. — Yes,  frightened  me.  They  made  me  feel 
as  if  there  might  be  constituted  a creature  with 
such  a chord  in  her  voice  to  some  string  in  an- 
other’s soul,  that,  if  she  but  spoke,  he  would  leave 
all  and  follow  her,  though  it  were  into  the  jaws  of 


262 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


Erebus.  Our  only  chance  to  keep  our  wits  is, 
that  there  are  so  few  natural  chords  between 
others’  voices  and  this  string  in  our  souls,  and 
that  those  which  at  first  may  have  jarred  a little 
by  and  by  come  into  harmony  with  it.  — But  I 
tell  you  this  is  no  fiction.  You  may  call  the 
story  of  Ulysses  and  the  Sirens  a fable,  but  what 
will  you  say  to  Mario  and  the  poor  lady  who  fol- 
lowed him  'i 

Whose  were  those  two  voices  that  be- 
witched me  so  ? — They  both  belonged  to  Ger- 
man women.  One  was  a chambermaid,  not  other- 
wise fascinating.  The  key  of  my  room  at  a cer- 
tain great  hotel  was  missing,  and  this  Teutonic 
maiden  was  summoned  to  give  information  re- 
specting it.  The  simple  soul  was  evidently  not 
long  from  her  mother-land,  and  spoke  with  sweet 
uncertainty  of  dialect.  But  to  hear  her  wonder 
and  lament  and  suggest,  with  soft,  liquid  inflec- 
tions, and  low,  sad  murmurs,  in  tones  as  full  of 
serious  tenderness  for  the  fate  of  the  lost  key  as 
if  it  had  been  a child  that  had  strayed  from  its 
mother,  was  so  winning,  that,  had  her  features 
and  figure  been  as  delicious  as  her  accents,  — if 
she  had  looked  like  the  marble  Clytie,  for  instance, 
— why,  all  I can  say  is  

[The  schoolmistress  opened  her  eyes  so  wide, 
that  I stopped  short.] 

I was  only  going  to  say  that  I should  have 


• OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  263 

drowned  myself.  For  Lake  Erie  was  close  by, 
and  it  is  so  much  better  to  accept  asphyxia,  which 
takes  only  three  minutes  by  the  watch,  than  a 
mesalliance , that  lasts  fifty  years  to  begin  with,  and 
then  passes  along  down  the  line  of  descent,  (break- 
ing out  in  all  manner  of  boorish  manifestations  of 
feature  and  manner,  which,  if  men  were  only  aa 
short-lived  as  horses,  could  be  readily  traced  back 
through  the  square-roots  and  the  cube-roots  of  the 
family  stem  on  which  you  have  hung  the  armorial 
bearings  of  the  De  Champignons  or  the  De  la 
Monies,  until  one  came  to  beings  that  ate  with 
knives  and  said  “ Haow  ? ”)  that  no  person  of  right 
feeling  could  have  hesitated  for  a single  moment. 

The  second  of  the  ravishing  voices  I have  heard 
was,  as  I have  said,  that  of  another  German  wo- 
man. — I suppose  I shall  ruin  myself  by  saying 
that  such  a voice  could  not  have  come  from  any 
Americanized  human  being. 

What  was  there  in  it  ? — said  the  school. 

mistress,  — and,  upon  my  word,  her  tones  were  so 
very  musical,  that  I almost  wished  I had  said  threo 
voices  instead  of  two,  and  not  made  the  unpatri- 
otic remark  above  reported.  — O,  I said,  it  had  so 
much  woman  in  it,  — muliebrity , as  well  as  femineity ,« 
— no  self-assertion,  such  as  free  suffrage  introduces 
into  every  word  and  movement ; large,  vigorous 
nature,  running  back  to  those  huge-limbed  Ger- 
mans of  Tacitus,  but  subdued  by  the  reverential 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


164 

training  and  tuned  by  the  kindly  culture  of  fifty 
generations.  Sharp  business  habits,  a lean  soil, 
independence,  enterprise,  and  east  winds,  are  not 
the  best  things  for  the  larynx.  Still,  you  hear 
noble  voices  among  us,  — I have  known  families 
famous  for  them,  — but  ask  the  first  person  you 
meet  a question,  and  ten  to  one  there  is  a hard, 
sharp,  metallic,  matter-of-business  clink  in  the  ac- 
cents of  the  answer,  that  produces  the  effect  of 
one  of  those  bells  which  small  tradespeople  con- 
nect with  their  shop-doors,  and  which  spring  upon 
your  ear  with  such  vivacity,  as  you  enter,  that 
your  first  impulse  is  to  retire  at  once  from  the 
precincts. 

Ah,  but  I must  not  forget  that  dear  little 

child  I saw  and  heard  in  a French  hospital.  Be- 
tween two  and  three  years  old.  Fell  out  of  her 
chair  and  snapped  both  thigh-bones.  Lying  in 
bed,  patient,  gentle.  Bough  students  round  her, 
some  in  white  aprons,  looking  fearfully  business- 
like ; but  the  child  placid,  perfectly  still.  I spoke 
to  her,  and  the  blessed  little  creature  answered  me 
in  a voice  of  such  heavenly  sweetness,  with  that 
reedy  thrill  in  it  which  you  have  heard  in  the 
thrush’s  even-song,  that  I hear  it  at  this  moment, 
while  I am  writing,  so  many,  many  years  after- 
wards. — C’est  tout  comme  un  serin , said  the  French 
student  at  my  side. 

These  are  the  voices  which  struck  the  key-note 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  265 

of  my  conceptions  as  to  what  the  sounds  we  are  to 
hear  in  heaven  will  be,  if  we  shall  enter  through 
one  of  the  twelve  gates  of  pearl.  There  must  be 
other  things  besides  aerolites  that  wander  from 
their  own  spheres  to  ours ; and  when  we  speak  of 
celestial  sweetness  or  beauty,  we  may  be  nearer 
the  literal  truth  than  we  dream.  If  mankind  gen- 
erally are  the  shipwrecked  survivors  of  some  pre- 
Adamitic  cataclysm,  set  adrift  in  these  little  open 
boats  of  humanity  to  make  one  more  trial  to  reach 
the  shore,  — as  some  grave  theologians  have  main- 
tained,— if,  in  plain  English,  men  are  the  ghosts 
of  dead  devils  who  have  “ died  into  life,”  (to  bor- 
row an  expression  from  Keats,)  and  walk  the 
earth  in  a suit  of  living  rags  which  lasts  three 
or  four  score  summers,  — why,  there  must  have 
been  a few  good  spirits  sent  to  keep  them  compa- 
ny, and  these  sweet  voices  I speak  of  must  belong 
to  them. 

1 wish  you  could  once  hear  my  sister’s 

voice,  — said  the  schoolmistress. 

If  it  is  like  yours,  it  must  be  a pleasant  one,  — 
said  I. 

I never  thought  mine  was  anything,  — said  the 
schoolmistress. 

How  should  you  know? — said  I.  — People 
never  hear  their  own  voices,  — any  more  than  they 
see  their  own  faces.  There  is  not  even  a looking- 
glass  for  the  voice.  Of  course,  there  is  something 


266 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


audible  to  us  when  we  speak ; but  that  something 
is  not  our  own  voice  as  it  is  known  to  all  our  ac- 
quaintances. I think,  if  an  image  spoke  to  us  in 
our  own  tones,  we  should  not  know  them  in  the 
least.  — How  pleasant  it  would  be,  if  in  another 
state  of  being  we  could  have  shapes  like  our  own 
former  selves  for  playthings,  — we  standing  out- 
side or  inside  of  them,  as  we  liked,  and  they  being 
to  us  just  what  we  used  to  be  to  others ! 

I wonder  if  there  will  be  nothing  like  what 

we  call  “play,”  after  our  earthly  toys  are  broken, 
— said  the  schoolmistress. 

Hush,  — said  I,  — what  will  the  divinity-student 
say  ? 

[I  thought  she  was  hit,  that  time ; — but  the 
shot  must  have  gone  over  her,  or  on  one  side  of 
her;  she  did  not  flinch.] 

O, — said  the  schoolmistress,  — he  must  look 
out  for  my  sister’s  heresies ; I am  afraid  he  will 
be  too  busy  'with  them  to  take  care  of  mine. 

Do  you  mean  to  say,  — said  I,  — that  it  is  your 

sister  whom  that  student 

[The  young  fellow  commonly  known  as  John, 
who  had  been  sitting  on  the  barrel,  smoking, 
jumped  off  just  then,  kicked  over  the  barrel,  gave 
it  a push  with  his  foot  that  set  it  rolling,  and 
stuck  his  saucy-looking  face  in  at  the  window  so 
as  to  cut  my  question  off*  in  the  middle ; and  the 
schoolmistress  leaving  the  room  a few  minutes 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  267 

afterwards,  I did  not  have  a chance  to  finish 
it. 

The  young  fellow  came  in  and  sat  down  in  a 
chair,  putting  his  heels  on  the  top  of  another. 

Pooty  girl,  — said  he. 

A fine  young  lady,  — I replied. 

Keeps  a fust-rate  school,  according  to  accounts, 
— said  he,  — teaches  all  sorts  of  things,  — Latin 
and  Italian  and  music.  Folks  rich  once,  — * smashed 
up.  She  went  right  ahead  as  smart  as  if  she  'd 
been  born  to  work.  That  ’s  the  kind  o'  girl  I go 
for.  I ’d  marry  her,  only  two  or  three  other  girls 
would  drown  themselves  if  I did. 

I think  the  above  is  the  longest  speech  of  this 
young  fellow’s  which  I have  put  on  record.  I do 
not  like  to  change  his  peculiar  expressions,  for  this 
is  one  of  those  cases  in  which  the  style  is  the  man, 
as  M.  de  Buffon  says.  The  fact  is,  the  young  fel- 
low is  a good-hearted  creature  enough,  only  too 
fond  of  his  jokes,  — and  if  it  were  not  for  those 
heat-lightning  winks  on  one  side  of  his  face,  I 
should  not  mind  his  fun  much.] 

[Some  days  after  this,  when  the  company  were 
together  again,  I talked  a little.] 

1 dojiLt  think  I have  a genuine  hatred  for 

anybody.  I am  well  aware  that  I differ  herein 
from  the  sturdy  English  moralist  and  the  stout 
American  tragedian.  I don’t  deny  that  I hate  the 


268 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


sight  of  certain  people ; but  the  qualities  which 
make  me  tend  to  hate  the  man  himself  are  such 
as  I am  so  much  disposed  to  pity,  that,  except 
under  immediate  aggravation,  I feel  kindly  enough 
to  the  worst  of  them.  It  is  such  a sad  thing  to 
be  born  a sneaking  fellow,  so  much  worse  than  to 
inherit  a hump-back  or  a couple  of  club-feet,  that 
I sometimes  feel  as  if  we  ought  to  love  the  crip- 
pled souls,  if  I may  use  this  expression,  with  a 
certain  tenderness  which  we  need  not  waste  on 
noble  natures.  One  who  is  born  with  such  con- 
genital incapacity  that  nothing  can  make  a gentle- 
man of  him  is  entitled,  not  to  our  wrath,  but  to 
our  profoundest  sympathy.  But  as  we  cannot 
help  hating  the  sight  of  these  people,  just  as  we 
do  that  of  physical  deformities,  we  gradually  elim- 
inate them  from  our  society,  — we  love  them,  but 
open  the  window  and  let  them  go.  By  the  time 
decent  people  reach  middle  age  they  have  weeded 
their  circle  pretty  well  of  these  unfortunates,  un- 
less they  have  a taste  for  such  animals ; in  which 
case,  no  matter  what  their  position  may  be,  there 
is  something,  you  may  be  sure,  in  their  natures 
akin  to  that  of  their  wretched  parasites. 

The  divinity-student  wished  to  know  what 

I thought  of  affinities,  as  well  as  of  antipathies ; 
did  I believe  in  love  at  first  sight  ? 

Sir,  — said  I,  — all  men  love  all  women.  That 
is  the  prima-facie  aspect  of  the  case.  The  Court 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 269 

of  Nature  assumes  the  law  to  be,  that  all  men  do 
so ; and  the  individual  man  is  bound  to  show 
cause  why  he  does  not  love  any  particular  woman. 
A man,  says  one  of  my  old  black-letter  law-books, 
may  show  divers  good  reasons,  as  thus : He  hath 
not  seen  the  person  named  in  the  indictment;  she 
is  of  tender  age,  or  the  reverse  of  that ; she  hath 
certain  personal  disqualifications,  — as,  for  instance, 
she  is  a blackamoor,  or  hath  an  ill-favored  counte- 
nance ; or,  his  capacity  of  loving  being  limited,  his 
affections  are  engrossed  by  a previous  comer ; and 
so  of  other  conditions.  Not  the  less  is  it  true  that 
he  is  bound  by  duty  and  inclined  by  nature  to  love 
each  and  every  woman.  Therefore  it  is  that  each 
woman  virtually  summons  every  man  to  show 
cause  why  he  doth  not  love  her.  This  is  not  by 
written  document,  or  direct  speech,  for  the  most 
part,  but  by  certain  signs  of  silk,  gold,  and  othef 
materials,  which  say  to  all  men,  — Look  on  mtf 
and  love,  as  in  duty  bound.  Then  the  man  plead- 
eth  his  special  incapacity,  whatsoever  that  may  be- 
— as,  for  instance,  impecuniosity,  or  that  he  hath 
one  or  many  wives  in  his  household,  or  that  he  is 
of  mean  figure,  or  small  capacity ; of  which  rea- 
sons, it  may  be  noted,  that  the  first  is,  according 
to  late  decisions,  of  chiefest  authority.  — So  far 
the  old  law-book.  But  there  is  a note  from  an 
older  authority,  saying  that  every  woman  doth 
also  love  each  and  every  man,  except  there  be 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


270 

some  good  reason  to  the  contrary ; and  a very  ob- 
serving friend  of  mine,  a young  unmarried  clergy- 
man, tells  me,  that,  so  far  as  his  experience  goes, 
he  has  reason  to  think  the  ancient  author  had  fact 
to  justify  his  statement. 

I ’ll  tell  you  how  it  is  with  the  pictures  of 
women  we  fall  in  love  with  at  first  sight. 

We  ain’t  talking  about  pictures,  — said 

the  landlady’s  daughter,  — we  ’re  talking  about 
women. 

I understood  that  we  were  speaking  of  love  at 
sight,  — I remarked,  mildly.  — Now,  as  all  a man 
knows  about  a woman  whom  he  looks  at  is  just 
what  a picture  as  big  as  a copper,  or  a “ nickel,” 
rather,  at  the  bottom  of  his  eye  can  teach  him,  I 
think  I am  right  in  saying  we  are  talking  about 
the  pictures  of  women.  — Well,  now,  the  reason 
why  a man  is  not  desperately  in  love  with  ten 
thousand  women  at  once  is  just  that  which  pre- 
vents all  our  portraits  being  distinctly  seen  upon 
that  wall.  They  all  are  painted  there  by  reflec- 
tion from  our  faces,  but  because  all  of  them  are 
painted  on  each  spot,  and  each  on  the  same  sur- 
face, and  many  other  objects  at  the  same  time,  no 
one  is  seen  as  a picture.  But  darken  a chamber 
and  let  a single  pencil  of  rays  in  through  a key- 
hole, then  you  have  a picture  on  the  wall.  We 
never  fall  in  love  with  a woman  in  distinction 
from  women,  until  we  can  get  an  image  of  her 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  271 

through  a pin-hole ; and  then  we  can  see  nothing 
else,  and  nobody  but  ourselves  can  see  the  image 
in  our  mental  camera-obscura. 

My  friend,  the  Poet,  tells  me  he  has 

to  leave  town  whenever  the  anniversaries  come 
round. 

What ’s  the  difficulty  ? — Why,  they  all  want 
him  to  get  up  and  make  speeches,  or  songs,  or 
toasts  ; which  is  just  the  very  thing  he  does  n’t 
want  to  do.  He  is  an  old  story,  he  says,  and 
hates  to  show  on  these  occasions.  But  they  tease 
him,  and  coax  him,  and  can’t  do  without  him, 
and  feel  all  over  his  poor  weak  head  until  they 
get  their  fingers  on  the  fontanelle,  (the  Professor 
will  tell  you  what  this  means,  — he  says  the  one 
at  the  top  of  the  head  always  remains  open  in 
poets,)  until,  by  gentle  pressure  on  that  soft  pul- 
sating spot,  they  stupefy  him  to  the  point  of 
acquiescence. 

There  are  times,  though,  he  says,  when  it  is  a 
pleasure,  before  going  to  some  agreeable  meeting, 
to  rush  out  into  one’s  garden  and  clutch  up  a 
handful  of  what  grows  there,  — weeds  and  violets 
together,  — not  cutting  them  off,  but  pulling  them 
up  by  the  roots  with  the  brown  earth  they  grow 
in  sticking  to  them.  That ’s  his  idea  of  a post- 
prandial performance.  Look  here,  now.  These 
verses  I am  going  to  read  you,  he  tells  me,  were 
pulled  up  by  the  roots  just  in  that  way,  the 


272 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


other  day.  — Beautiful  entertainment,  — names 
there  on  the  plates  that  flow  from  all  English- 
speaking  tongues  as  familiarly  as  and  or  the ; 
entertainers  known  wherever  good  poetry  and 
fair  title-pages  are  held  in  esteem ; guest  a kind- 
hearted,  modest,  genial,  hopeful  poet,  who  sings 
to  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen,  the  British  peo- 
ple, the  songs  of  good  cheer  which  the  better  days 
to  come,  as  all  honest  souls  trust  and  believe,  will 
turn  into  the  prose  of  common  life.  My  friend, 
the  Poet,  says  you  must  not  read  such  a string  of 
verses  too  literally.  If  he  trimmed  it  nicely  be- 
low, you  would  n’t  see  the  roots,  he  says,  and  he 
likes  to  keep  them,  and  a little  of  the  soil  clinging 
to  them. 

This  is  the  farewell  of  my  friend,  the  Poet, 
read  to  his  and  our  friend,  the  Poet : — 


A GOOD  TIME  GOING! 

Brave  singer  of  the  coming  time, 

Sweet  minstrel  of  the  joyous  present, 
Crowned  with  the  noblest  wreath  of  rhyme, 
The  holly-leaf  of  Ayrshire’s  peasant, 

Good  by  ! Good  by  ! — Our  hearts  and  hands, 
Our  lips  in  honest  Saxon  phrases, 

Cry,  God  be  with  him,  till  he  stands 
His  feet  among  the  English  daisies  1 

’T  is  here  we  part  5 — for  other  eyes 
The  busy  deck,  the  fluttering  streamer, 

The  dripping  arms  that  plunge  and  rise, 

The  waves  in  foam,  the  ship  in  tremor. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 


*73 


The  kerchiefs  waving  from  the  pier, 

The  cloudy  pillar  gliding  o’er  him, 

The  deep  blue  desert,  lone  and  drear, 

With  heaven  above  and  home  before  him  ! 

His  home  ! — the  Western  giant  smiles, 

And  twirls  the  spotty  globe  to  find  it ; — 
This  little  speck  the  British  Isles  ? 

’T  is  but  a freckle,  — never  mind  it ! — 

He  laughs,  and  all  his  prairies  roll, 

Each  gurgling  cataract  roars  and  chuckles, 
And  ridges  stretched  from  pole  to  pole 
Heave  till  they  crack  their  iron  knuckles  ! 

But  memory  blushes  at  the  sneer, 

And  Honor  turns  with  frown  defiant, 

And  Freedom,  leaning  on  her  spear, 

Laughs  louder  than  the  laughing  giant : — 

“ An  islet  is  a world,”  she  said, 

“ When  glory  with  its  dust  has  blended, 

And  Britain  keeps  her  noble  dead 
Till  earth  and  seas  and  skies  are  rended  ! ” 

Beneath  each  swinging  forest-bough 
Some  arm  as  stout  in  death  reposes,  — 

From  wave-washed  foot  to  heaven-kissed  brow 
Her  valor’s  life-blood  runs  in  roses  ; 

Nay,  let  our  brothers  of  the  West 
Write  smiling  in  their  florid  pages, 

One  half  her  soil  has  walked  the  rest 
In  poets,  heroes,  martyrs,  sages  ! 

Hugged  in  the  clinging  billow’s  clasp, 

From  sea-weed  fringe  to  mountain  heather, 
The  British  oak  with  rooted  grasp 

Her  slender  handful  holds  together  ; — 

With  cliffs  of  white  and  bowers  of  green, 

And  Ocean  narrowing  to  caress  her, 

And  hills  and  threaded  streams  between,  — 
Our  little  mother  isle,  God  bless  her  ! 

18 


*74 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


In  earth’s  broad  temple  where  we  stand, 

Fanned  by  the  eastern  gales  that  brought  us, 

We  hold  the  missal  in  our  hand, 

Bright  with  the  lines  our  Mother  taught  us  *, 
Where’er  its  blazoned  page  betrays 
The  glistening  links  of  gilded  fetters, 

Behold,  the  half-turned  leaf  displays 
Her  rubric  stained  in  crimson  letters  ! 

Enough  ! To  speed  a parting  friend 
’T  is  vain  alike  to  speak  and  listen  $ — 

Yet  stay,  — these  feeble  accents  blend 
Writh  rays  of  light  from  eyes  that  glisten. 

Good  by  ! once  more,  — and  kindly  tell 
In  words  of  peace  the  young  world’s  story,  — 

And  say,  besides,  — we  love  too  well 
Our  mothers’  soil,  our  fathers’  glory  ! 

When  my  friend,  the  Professor,  found  that  my 
friend,  the  Poet,  had  been  coming  out  in  this  full- 
blown style,  he  got  a little  excited,  as  you  may 
have  seen  a canary,  sometimes,  when  another 
strikes  up.  The  Professor  says  he  knows  he  can 
lecture,  and  thinks  he  can  write  verses.  At  any 
rate,  he  has  often  tried,  and  now  he  was  deter- 
mined to  try  again.  So  when  some  professional 
friends  of  his  called  him  up,  one  day,  after  a feast 
of  reason  and  a regular  “freshet”  of  soul  which 
had  lasted  two  or  three  hours,  he  read  them  these 
verses.  He  introduced  them  with  a few  remarks, 
he  told  me,  of  which  the  only  one  he  remembered 
was  this : that  he  had  rather  write  a single  line 
which  one  among  them  should  think  worth  re- 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 275 

numbering  than  set  them  all  laughing  with  a 
string  of  epigrams.  It  was  all  right,  I don’t 
doubt ; at  any  rate,  that  was  his  fancy  then,  and 
perhaps  another  time  he  may  be  obstinately  hila- 
rious ; however,  it  may  be  that  he  is  growing 
graver,  for  time,  is  a fact  so  long  as  clocks  and 
watches  continue  to  go,  and  a cat  can’t  be  a kit- 
ten always,  as  the  old  gentleman  opposite  said  the 
other  day. 

You  must  listen  to  this  seriously,  for  I think 
the  Professor  was  very  much  in  earnest  when  he 
wrote  it. 


Two  marshalled  hosts  are  seen,  — 
Two  armies  on  the  trampled  shores 
That  Death  flows  black  between. 

One  marches  to  the  drum-beat’s  roll, 
The  wide^mouthed  clarion’s  bray, 
And  bears  upon  a crimson  scroll, 

“ Our  glory  is  to  slay.” 

One  moves  in  silence  by  the  stream, 
With  sad,  yet  watchful  eyes, 

Calm  as  the  patient  planers  gleam 
That  walks  the  clouded  skies. 

Along  its  front  no  sabres  shine, 

No  blood-red  pennons  wave  $ 

Its  banners  bear  the  single  line, 

“ Our  duty  is  to  save.” 


As  Life’s  unending  column  pours, 


1 Note  S. 


27  6 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


For  those  no  death-bed’s  lingering  shade  $ 
At  Honor’s  trumpet-call 

With  knitted  brow  and  lifted  blade 
In  Glory’s  arms  they  fall. 

For  these  no  clashing  falchions  bright, 

No  stirring  battle-cry  ; 

The  bloodless  stabber  calls  by  night, — 
Each  answers,  “ Here  am  I ! ” 

For  those  the  sculptor’s  laurelled  bust, 

The  builder’s  marble  piles, 

The  anthems  pealing  o’er  their  dust 
Through  long  cathedral  aisles. 

For  these  the  blossom-sprinkled  turf 
That  floods  the  lonely  graves, 

When  Spring  rolls  in  her  sea-green  surf 
In  flowery-foaming  waves. 

Two  paths  lead  upward  from  below, 

And  angels  wait  above, 

Who  count  each  burning  life-drop’s  flow, 
Each  falling  tear  of  Love. 

Though  from  the  Hero’s  bleeding  breast 
Her  pulses  Freedom  drew, 

Though  the  white  lilies  in  her  crest 
Sprang  from  that  scarlet  dew,  — 

While  Valor’s  haughty  champions  wait 
Till  all  their  scars  are  shown, 

Love  walks  unchallenged  through  the  gate, 
To  sit  beside  the  Throne  ! 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  277 


X. 

schoolmistress  came  down  with  a 
3 in  her  hair,  — a fresh  June  rose. 
5 has  been  walking  early ; she  has 
ught  back  two  others,  — one  on 

each  cheek. 

I told  her  so,  in  some  such  pretty  phrase  as  I 
could  muster  for  the  occasion.  Those  two  blush- 
roses  I just  spoke  of  turned  into  a couple  of  dam- 
asks. I suppose  all  this  went  through  my  mind, 
for  this  was  what  I went  on  to  say  : — ] 

I love  the  damask  rose  best  of  all.  The  flowers 
our  mothers  and  sisters  used  to  love  and  cherish, 
those  which  grow  beneath  our  eaves  and  by  our 
doorstep,  are  the  ones  we  always  love  best.  If  the 
Houyhnhnms  should  ever  catch  me,  and,  finding 
me  particularly  vicious  and  unmanageable,  send  a 
man-tamer  to  Rareyfy  me,  I J11  tell  you  what  drugs 
he  would  have  to  take  and  how  he  would  have  to 
use  them.*  Imagine  yourself  reading  a number  of 
the  Houyhnhnm  Gazette,  giving  an  account  of 
such  an  experiment. 

“ MAN-TAMING  EXTRAORDINARY. 

“ The  soft-hoofed  semi-quadruped  recently  cap- 
tured was  subjected  to  the  art  of  our  distinguished 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


278 

man-tamer  in  presence  of  a numerous  assembly. 
The  animal  was  led  in  by  two  stout  ponies,  closely 
confined  by  straps  to  prevent  his  sudden  and  dan- 
gerous tricks  of  shoulder-hitting  and  foot-striking. 
His  countenance  expressed  the  utmost  degree  of 
ferocity  and  cunning. 

“ The  operator  took  a handful  of  budding  lilac- 
leave Sy  and  crushing  them  slightly  between  his 
hoofs,  so  as  to  bring  out  their  peculiar  fragrance, 
fastened  them  to  the  end  of  a long  pole  and  held 
them  towards  the  creature.  Its  expression  changed 
in  an  instant,  — it  drew  in  their  fragrance  eagerly, 
and  attempted  to  seize  them  with  its  soft  split 
hoofs.  Having  thus  quieted  his  suspicious  sub- 
ject, the  operator  proceeded  to  tie  a blue  hyacinth  to 
the  end  of  the  pole  and  held  it  out  towards  the 
wild  animal.  The  effect  was  magical.  Its  eyes 
filled  as  if  with  rain-drops,  and  its  lips  trembled  as 
it  pressed  them  to  the  flower.  After  this  it  was 
perfectly  quiet,  and  brought  a measure  of  corn  to 
the  man-tamer,  without  showing  the  least  disposi- 
tion to  strike  with  the  feet  or  hit  from  the 
shoulder.” 

That  will  do  for  the  Houyhnhnm  Gazette. — 
Do  you  ever  wonder  why  poets  talk  so  much 
about  flowers  ? Did  you  ever  hear  of  a poet  who 
did  not  talk  about  them  ? Don’t  you  think  a 
poem,  which,  for  the  sake  of  being  original  should 
leave  them  out,  would  be  like  those  verses  where 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  279 

the  letter  a or  e or  some  other  is  omitted  ? No. 

— they  will  bloom  over  and  over  again  in  poems 
as  in  the  summer  fields,  to  the  end  of  time,  always 
old  and  always  new.  Why  should  we  be  more 
shy  of  repeating  ourselves  than  the  spring  be  tired 
of  blossoms  or  the  night  of  stars  ? Look  at  Na- 
ture. She  never  wearies  of  saying  over  her  floral 
pater-noster.  In  the  crevices  of  Cyclopean  walls, 

— in  the  dust  where  men  lie,  dust  also,  — on  the 
mounds  that  bury  huge  cities,  the  wreck  of  Nin- 
eveh and  the  Babel-heap,  — still  that  same  sweet 
prayer  and  benediction.  The  Amen  ! of  Nature 
is  always  a flower. 

Are  you  tired  of  my  trivial  personalities,  — 
those  splashes  and  streaks  of  sentiment,  sometimes 
perhaps  of  sentimentality,  which  you  may  see 
when  I show  you  my  heart’s  corolla  as  if  it  were  a 
tulip  ? Pray,  do  not  give  yourself  the  trouble  to 
fancy  me  an  idiot  whose  conceit  it  is  to  treat  him- 
self as  an  exceptional  being.  It  is  because  you 
are  just  like  me  that  I talk  and  know  that  you 
will  listen.  We  are  all  splashed  and  streaked 
with  sentiments,  — not  with  precisely  the  same 
tints,  or  in  exactly  the  same  patterns,  but  by  the 
same  hand  and  from  the  same  palette. 

I don’t  believe  any  of  you  happen  to  have  just 
the  same  passion  for  the  blue  hyacinth  which  I 
have,  — very  certainly  not  for  the  crushed  lilac- 
leaf-buds  ; many  of  you  do  not  know  how  sweet 


28o 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


they  are.  You  love  the  smell  of  the  sweet-fern 
and  the  bay  berry-leaves,  I don’t  doubt  ; but  I 
hardly  think  that  the  last  bewitches  you  with 
young  memories  as  it  does  me.  For  the  s^me 
reason  I come  back  to  damask  roses,  after  having 
raised  a good  many  of  the  rarer  varieties.  I like 
to  go  to  operas  and  concerts,  but  there  are  queer 
little  old  homely  sounds  that  are  better  than 
music  to  me.  However,  I suppose  it ’s  foolish  to 
tell  such  things. 

It  is  pleasant  to  be  foolish  at  the  right 

time,  — said  the  divinity-student  ; — saying  it, 
however,  in  one  of  the  dead  languages,  which  I 
think  are  unpopular  for  summer-reading,  and 
therefore  do  not  bear  quotation  as  such. 

Well,  now,  — said  I,  — suppose  a good,  clean, 
wholesome-looking  countryman’s  cart  stops  oppo- 
site my  door.  — Do  I want  any  huckleberries  ? — 
If  I do  not,  there  are  those  that  do.  Thereupon 
my  soft-voiced  handmaid  bears  out  a large  tin-pan, 
and  then  the  wholesome  countryman,  heaping  the 
peck-measure,  spreads  his  broad  hands  around  its 
lower  arc  to  confine  the  wild  and  frisky  berries, 
and  so  they  run  nimbly  along  the  narrowing  chan- 
nel until  they  tumble  rustling  down  in  a black 
cascade  and  tinkle  on  the  resounding  metal  be- 
neath. — I won’t  say  that  this  rushing  huckleberry 
hail-storm  has  not  more  music  for  me  than  the 
“ Anvil  Chorus.” 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  281 

1 wonder  how  my  great  trees  are  coming 

on  this  summer. 

Where  are  your  great  trees,  sir  ? — said 

the  divinity-student. 

O,  all  round  about  New  England.  I call  all 
trees  mine  that  I have  put  my  wedding-ring  on, 
and  I have  as  many  tree-wives  as  Brigham  Young 
has  human  ones. 

One  set 's  as  green  as  the  other,  — ex- 
claimed a boarder,  who  has  never  been  identified. 

They  're  all  Bloomers,  — said  the  young  fellow 
called  John. 

[I  should  have  rebuked  this  trifling  with  lan- 
guage, if  our  landlady's  daughter  had  not  asked 
me  just  then  what  I meant  by  putting  my  wed- 
ding-ring on  a tree.] 

Why,  measuring  it  with  my  thirty-foot  tape, 
my  dear,  — said  I,  — I have  worn  a tape  almost 
out  on  the  rough  barks  of  our  old  New  England 
elms  and  other  big  trees.  — Don't  you  want  to 
hear  me  talk  trees  a little  now  ? That  is  one  of 
my  specialties. 

[So  they  all  agreed  that  they  should  like  to  hear 


I want  you  to  understand,  in  the  first  place,  that 
I have  a most  intense,  passionate  fondness  for  trees 
in  general,  and  have  had  several  romantic  attach- 
ments to  certain  trees  in  particular.  Now,  if  you 
expect  me  to  hold  forth  in  a “ scientific " way 


me  talk  about  trees.] 


282 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


about  my  tree-loves,  — to  talk,  for  instance,  of  the 
Ulmus  Americana,  and  describe  the  ciliated  edges 
of  its  samara,  and  all  that, — you  are  an  anserine 
individual,  and  I must  refer  you  to  a dull  friend 
who  will  discourse  to  you  of  such  matters.  What 
should  you  think  of  a lover  who  should  describe 
the  idol  of  his  heart  in  the  language  of  science, 
thus  : Class,  Mammalia ; Order,  Primates ; Ge- 
nus, Homo;  Species,  Europeus;  Variety,  Brown, 
Individual,  Ann  Eliza ; Dental 

Formula,  i|=|c  — 2OTI^I’  and  S°  °D? 

No,  my  friends,  I shall  speak  of  trees  as  we  see 
them,  love  them,  adore  them  in  the  fields,  where 
they  are  alive,  holding  their  green  sun-shades  over 
our  heads,  talking  to  us  with  their  hundred  thou- 
sand whispering  tongues,  looking  down  on  us  with 
that  sweet  meekness  which  belongs  to  huge,  but 
limited  organisms,  — which  one  sees  in  the  brown 
eyes  of  oxen,  but  most  in  the  patient  posture,  the 
outstretched  arms,  and  the  heavy-drooping  robes 
of  these  vast  beings  endowed  with  life,  but  not  with 
soul,  — which  outgrow  us  and  outlive  us,  but  stand 
helpless,  — poor  things! — while  Nature  dresses 
and  undresses  them,  like  so  many  full-sized,  but 
under-witted  children. 

Did  you  ever  read  old  Daddy  Gilpin  ? Slowest 
of  men,  even  of  English  men  ; yet  delicious  in  his 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  283 

slowness,  as  is  the  light  of  a sleepy  eye  in  woman. 
I always  supposed  “ Dr.  Syntax  ” was  written  to 
make  fun  of  him.  I have  a whole  set  of  his  works, 
and  am  very  proud  of  it,  with  its  gray  paper,  and 
open  type,  and  long  (T,  and  orange-juice  landscapes. 
The  Pere  Gilpin  had  the  kind  of  science  I like  in 
the  study  of  Nature,  — a little  less  observation  than 
White  of  Selborne,  but  a little  more  poetry.  — Just 
think  of  applying  the  Linnaean  system  to  an  elm  ! 
Who  cares  how  many  stamens  or  pistils  that  little 
brown  flower,  which  comes  out  before  the  leaf, 
may  have  to  classify  it  by  ? What  we  want  is  the 
meaning,  the  character,  the  expression  of  a tree,  as 
a kind  and  as  an  individual. 

There  is  a mother-idea  in  each  particular  kind 
of  tree,  which,  if  well  marked,  is  probably  embod- 
ied in  the  poetry  of  every  language.  Take  the 
oak,  for  instance,  and  we  find  it  always  standing 
as  a type  of  strength  and  endurance.  I wonder 
if  you  ever  thought  of  the  single  mark  of  suprem- 
acy which  distinguishes  this  tree  from  all  our 
other  forest-trees  ? All  the  rest  of  them  shirk  the 
work  of  resisting  gravity  ; the  oak  alone  defies  it. 
It  chooses  the  horizontal  direction  for  its  limbs,  so 
that  their  whole  weight  may  tell, — and  then  stretch- 
es them  out  fifty  or  sixty  feet,  so  that  the  strain 
may  be  mighty  enough  to  be  worth  resisting.  You 
will  find,  that,  in  passing  from  the  extreme  down- 
ward droop  of  the  branches  of  the  weeping-willow 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


*8  4 

to  the  extreme  upward  inclination  of  those  of  the 
poplar,  they  sweep  nearly  half  a circle.  At  90°  the 
oak  stops  short ; to  slant  upward  another  degree 
would  mark  infirmity  of  purpose  ; to  bend  down- 
wards, weakness  of  organization.  The  American 
elm  betrays  something  of  both  ; yet  sometimes,  as 
we  shall  see,  puts  on  a certain  resemblance  to  its 
sturdier  neighbor. 

It  won’t  do  to  be  exclusive  in  our  taste  about 
trees.  There  is  hardly  one  of  them  which  has  not 
peculiar  beauties  in  some  fitting  place  for  it.  I 
remember  a tall  poplar  of  monumental  proportions 
and  aspect,  a vast  pillar  of  glossy  green,  placed  on 
the  summit  of  a lofty  hill,  and  a beacon  to  all  the 
country  round.  A native  of  that  region  saw  fit  to 
build  his  house  very  near  it,  and,  having  a fancy 
that  it  might  blow  down  some  time  or  other,  and 
exterminate  himself  and  any  incidental  relatives 
who  might  be  “ stopping  ” or  “ tarrying  ” with 
him,  — also  laboring  under  the  delusion  that  hu- 
man life  is  under  all  circumstances  to  be  preferred 
to  vegetable  existence, — had  the  great  poplar  cut 
down.  It  is  so  easy  to  say,  “ It  is  only  a poplar  ! ” 
and  so  much  harder  to  replace  its  living  cone  than 
to  build  a granite  obelisk  ! 

I must  tell  you  about  some  of  my  tree-wives.  I 
was  at  one  period  of  my  life  much  devoted  to  the 
young  lady  population  of  Rhode  Island,  a small, 
but  delightful  State  in  the  neighborhood  of  Paw 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST- TAB EE.  285 

tucket.  The  number  of  inhabitants  being  not 
very  large,  I had  leisure,  during  my  visits  to  the 
Providence  Plantations,  to  inspect  the  face  of  the 
country  in  the  intervals  of  more  fascinating  stud- 
(es  of  physiognomy.  I heard  some  talk  of  a great 
dm  a short  distance  from  the  locality  just  men* 
honed.  “ Let  us  see  the  great  elm,”  — I said, 
and  proceeded  to  find  it,  — knowing  that  it  was 
on  a certain  farm  in  a place  called  Johnston,  if  I 
remember  rightly.  I shall  never  forget  my  ride 
and  my  introduction  to  the  great  Johnston  elm. 

I always  tremble  for  a celebrated  tree  when  I 
approach  it  for  the  first  time.  Provincialism  has 
no  scale  of  excellence  in  man  or  vegetable ; it 
never  knows  a first-rate  article  of  either  kind  when 
it  has  it,  and  is  constantly  taking  second  and  third 
rate  ones  for  Nature’s  best.  I have  often  fancied 
the  tree  was  afraid  of  me,  and  that  a sort  of  shiver 
came  over  it  as  over  a betrothed  maiden  when 
she  first  stands  before  the  unknown  to  whom  she 
has  been  plighted.  Before  the  measuring-tape  the 
proudest  tree  of  them  all  quails  and  shrinks  into 
itself.  All  those  stories  of  four  or  five  men  stretch- 
ing their  arms  around  it  and  not  touching  each 
other’s  fingers,  of  one’s  pacing  the  shadow  at  noon 
and  making  it  so  many  hundred  feet,  die  upon  its 
leafy  lips  in  the  presence  of  the  awful  ribbon  which 
has  strangled  so  many  false  prehensions. 

As  I rode  along  the  pleasant  way,  watching  ea- 


286 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


gerly  for  the  object  of  my  journey,  the  rounded 
tops  of  the  elms  rose  from  time  to  time  at  the 
roadside.  Wherever  one  looked  taller  and  fuller 
than  the  rest,  I asked  myself,  — “ Is  this  it  ? ” 
But  as  I drew  nearer,  they  grew  smaller,  — or  it 
proved,  perhaps,  that  two  standing  in  a line  had 
looked  like  one,  and  so  deceived  me.  At  last,  all 
at  once,  when  I was  not  thinking  of  it,  — I de- 
clare to  you  it  makes  my  flesh  creep  when  I think 
of  it  now,  — all  at  once  I saw  a great,  green  cloud 
swelling  in  the  horizon,  so  vast,  so  symmetrical, 
of  such  Olympian  majesty  and  imperial  suprema- 
cy among  the  lesser  forest  growths,  that  my  heart 
stopped  short,  then  jumped  at  my  ribs  as  a hunter 
springs  at  a five-barred  gate,  and  I felt  all  through 
me,  without  need  of  uttering  the  words,  — “ This 
is  it ! ” 

You  will  find  this  tree  described,  with  many 
others,  in  the  excellent  Report  upon  the  Trees  and 
Shrubs  of  Massachusetts.  The  author  has  given 
my  friend  the  Professor  credit  for  some  of  his 
measurements,  but  measured  this  tree  himself, 
carefully.  It  is  a grand  elm  for  size  of  trunk, 
spread  of  limbs,  and  muscular  development, — 
one  of  the  first,  perhaps  the  first,  of  the  first  class 
of  New  England  elms. 

The  largest  actual  girth  I have  ever  found  at 
five  feet  from  the  ground  is  in  the  great  elm  lying 
a stone’s  throw  or  two  north  of  the  main  road 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  28' 

(it  my  points  of  compass  are  right)  in  Springfield. 
But  this  has  much  the  appearance  of  having  been 
formed  by  the  union  of  two  trunks  growing  side 
by  side. 

The  West  Springfield  elm  and  one  upon  North- 
ampton meadows,  belong  also  to  the  first  class  of 
trees. 

There  is  a noble  old  wreck  of  an  elm  at  Hat- 
field, which  used  to  spread  its  claws  out  over  a 
circumference  of  thirty-five  feet  or  more  before 
they  covered  the  foot  of  its  bole  up  with  earth. 
This  is  the  American  elm  most  like  an  oak  of  any 
1 have  ever  seen. 

The  Sheffield  elm  is  equally  remarkable  for  size 
and  perfection  of  form.  I have  seen  nothing  that 
comes  near  it  in  Berkshire  County,  and  few  to 
compare  with  it  anywhere.  I am  not  sure  that  I 
remember  any  other  first-class  elms  in  New  Eng- 
land, but  there  may  be  many. 

What  makes  a first-class  elm  ? — Why, 

size,  in  the^ftrst  place,  and  chiefly.  Anything 
over  twenty  feet  of  clear  girth,  five  feet  above  the 
ground,  and  with  a spread  of  branches  a hundred 
feet  across  may  claim  that  title,  according  to  my 
scale.  All  of  them,  with  the  questionable  excep- 
tion of  the  Springfield  tree  above  referred  to,  stop, 
so  far  as  my  experience  goes,  at  about  twenty-two 
or  twenty-three  feet  of  girth  and  a hundred  and 
vventy  of  spread. 


288 


THE  AUTOCRAT 

Elms  of  the  second  class,  generally  ranging 
from  fourteen  to  eighteen  feet,  are  comparatively 
common.  The  queen  of  them  all  is  that  glori- 
ous tree  near  one  of  the  churches  in  Springfield. 
Beautiful  and  stately  she  is  beyond  all  praise.  The 
“ great  tree”  on  Boston  Common  comes  in  the 
second  rank,  as  does  the  one  at  Cohasset,  which 
used  to  have,  and  probably  has  still,  a head  as  round 
as  an  apple-tree,  and  that  at  Newburyport,  with 
scores  of  others  which  might  be  mentioned.  These 
last  two  have  perhaps  been  over-celebrated.  Both, 
however,  are  pleasing  vegetables.  The  poor  old 
Pittsfield  elm  lives  on  its  past  reputation.  A wig  of 
false  leaves  is  indispensable  to  make  it  presentable. 

[I  don't  doubt  there  may  be  some  monster-elm 
or  other,  vegetating  green,  but  inglorious,  in  some 
remote  New  England  village,  which  only  wants  a 
sacred  singer  to  make  it  celebrated.  Send  us 
your  measurements,  — (certified  by  the  postmas- 
ter, to  avoid  possible  imposition,)  — circumference 
five  feet  from  soil,  length  of  line  from  bough-end 
to  bough-end,  and  we  will  see  what  can  be  done 
for  you.] 

1-  wish  somebody  would  get  us  up  the  fob 

lowing  wrork : — 

SYLVA  NOVANGLICA. 

Photographs  of  New  England  Elms  and  other 
Trees,  taken  upon  the  Same  Scale  of  Magnitude; 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  289 

With  Letter-Press  Descriptions,  by  a Distinguished 

Literary  Gentleman.  Boston  : & Co. 

185  . . 

The  same  camera  should  be  used,  — so  far  as 
possible, — at  a fixed  distance.  Our  friend,  who 
has  given  us  so  many  interesting  figures  in  his 
“ Trees  of  America,”  must  not  think  this  Pro- 
spectus invades  his  province ; a dozen  portraits, 
with  lively  descriptions,  would  be  a pretty  com- 
plement to  his  larger  work,  which,  so  far  as  pub- 
lished, I find  excellent.  If  my  plan  were  carried 
out,  and  another  series  of  a dozen  English  trees 
photographed  on  the  same  scale,  the  comparison 
would  be  charming. 

It  has  always  been  a favorite  idea  of  mine  to 
bring  the  life  of  the  Old  and  the  New  World  face 
to  face,  by  an  accurate  comparison  of  their  va- 
rious types  of  organization.  We  should  begin 
with  man,  of  course  ; institute  a large  and  exact 
comparison  between  the  development  of  la  \ manta 
umana,  as  Alfieri  called  it,  in  different  sections  of 
each  country,  in  the  different  callings,  at  different 
ages,  estimating  height,  weight,  force  by  the  dyna- 
mometer and  the  spirometer,  and  finishing  off  with 
a series  of  typical  photographs,  giving  the  prin- 
cipal national  physiognomies.  Mr.  Hutchinson 
nas  given  us  some  excellent  English  data  to  begin 
with. 

Then  I would  follow  this  up  by  contrasting  the 

19 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


290 

various  parallel  forms  of  life  in  the  two  continents. 
Our  naturalists  have  often  referred  to  this  inciden- 
tally or  expressly  ; but  the  animus  of  Nature  in 
the  two  half  globes  of  the  planet  is  so  momentous 
a point  of  interest  to  our  race,  that  it  should  be 
made  a subject  of  express  and  elaborate  study. 
Go  out  with  me  into  that  walk  which  we  call  the 
Mall , and  look  at  the  English  and  American  elms. 
The  American  elm  is  tall,  graceful,  slender-sprayed, 
and  drooping  as  if  from  languor.  The  English 
elm  is  compact,  robust,  holds  its  branches  up,  and 
carries  its  leaves  for  weeks  longer  than  our  own 
native  tree. 

Is  this  typical  of  the  creative  force  on  the  two 
sides  of  the  ocean,  or  not  ? Nothing  but  a care- 
ful comparison  through  the  whole  realm  of  life 
can  answer  this  question. 

There  is  a parallelism  without  identity  in  the 
animal  and  vegetable  life  of  the  two  continents, 
which  favors  the  task  of  comparison  in  an  extraor- 
dinary manner.  Just  as  we  have  two  trees  alike 
in  many  ways,  yet  not  the  same,  both  elms,  yet 
easily  distinguishable,  just  so  we  have  a complete 
flora  and  a fauna,  which,  parting  from  the  same 
ideal,  embody  it  with  various  modifications.  In- 
ventive power  is  the  only  quality  of  which  the 
Creative  Intelligence  seems  to  be  economical ; just 
as  with  our  largest  human  minds,  that  is  the  di- 
vinest  of  faculties,  and  the  one  that  most  exhausts 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


291 


the  mind  which  exercises  it.  As  the  same  patterns 
have  very  commonly  been  followed,  we  can  see 
which  is  worked  out  in  the  largest  spirit,  and  de- 
termine the  exact  limitations  under  which  the  Cre- 
ator places  the  movement  of  life  in  all  its  manifes- 
tations in  either  locality.  We  should  find  ourselves 
in  a very  false  position,  if  it  should  prove  that 
Anglo-Saxons  can’t  live  here,  but  die  out,  if  not 
kept  up  by  fresh  supplies,  as  Dr.  Knox  and  other 
more  or  less  wise  persons  have  maintained.  It 
may  turn  out  the  other  way,  as  I have  heard  one 
of  our  literary  celebrities  argue,  — and  though  I 
took  the  other  side,  I liked  his  best,  — that  the 
American  is  the  Englishman  reinforced. 

— — Will  you  walk  out  and  look  at  those  elms 
with  me  after  breakfast  ? — I said  to  the  school- 
mistress. 

[I  am  not  going  to  tell  lies  about  it,  and  say 
that  she  blushed,  — as  I suppose  she  ought  to 
have  done,  at  such  a tremendous  piece  of  gallan- 
try as  that  was  for  our  boarding-house.  On  the 
contrary,  she  turned  a little  pale,  — but  smiled 
brightly  and  said,  — Yes,  with  pleasure,  but  she 
must  walk  towards  her  school.  — She  went  for  her 
bonnet.  — The  old  gentleman  opposite  followed 
her  with  his  eyes,  and  said  he  wished  he  was  a 
young  fellow.  Presently  she  came  down,  looking 
very  pretty  in  her  half-mourning /bonnet,  and  car% 
rying  a school-book  in  her  hand.] 


292 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


MY  FIRST  WALK  WITH  THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

This  is  the  shorte&t  way,  — she  said,  as  we  came 
to  a corner.  — Then  we  won’t  take  it,  — said  I.  — 
The  schoolmistress  laughed  a little,  and  said  she 
was  ten  minutes  early,  so  she  could  go  round. 

We  walked  under  Mr.  Paddock’s  row  of  Eng- 
lish elms.1  The  gray  squirrels  were  out  looking 
for  their  breakfasts,  and  one  of  them  came  toward 
us  in  light,  soft,  intermittent  leaps,  until  he  was 
close  to  the  rail  of  the  burial-ground.  He  was  on 
a grave  with  a broad  blue-slate-stone  at  its  her.d, 
and  a shrub  growing  on  it.  The  stone  said  this 
was  the  grave  of  a young  man  who  was  ne  son 
of  an  Honorable  gentleman,  and  who  died  a hun- 
dred years  ago  and  more.  — O yes,  died , — with  a 
small  triangular  mark  in  one  breast,  and  another 
smaller  opposite,  in  his  back,  where  another  young 
man’s  rapier  had  slid  through  his  body  ; and  so 
he  lay  down  out  there  on  the  Common,  and  was 
found  cold  the  next  morning,  with  the  night-dews 
and  the  death-dews  mingled  on  his  forehead. 

Let  us  have  one  look  at  poor  Benjamin’s  grave, 
— said  I.  — His  bones  lie  where  his  body  was  laid 
so  long  ago,  and  where  the  stone  says  they  lie,  - — 
which  is  more  than  can  be  said  of  most  of  thft 
tenants  of  this  and  several  other  burial-grounds. 

[The  most  accursed  act  of  Vandalism  ever 
committed  within  my  knowledge  was  the  uproot* 
1 Note  T. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


*93 

ing  of  the  ancient  gravestones  in  three  at  least  of 
our  city  burial-grounds,  and  one  at  least  just  out- 
side the  city,  and  venting  them  in  rows  to  suit 
the  taste  for  symmetry  of  the  perpetrators.  Many 
years  ago,  when  this  disgraceful  process  was  going 
on  under  my  eyes,  I addressed  an  indignant  re- 
monstrance to  a leading  journal.  I suppose  it 
was  deficient  in  literary  elegance,  or  too  warm  in 
its  language ; for  no  notice  was  taken  of  it,  and 
the  hyena-horvor  was  allowed  to  complete  itself  in 
the  face  of  daylight.  I have  never  got  over  it. 
The  bones  of  my  own  ancestors,  being  entombed, 
lie  beneath  their  own  tablet;  but  the  upright 
stones  have  been  shuffled  about  like  chessmen, 
and  nothing  short  of  the  Day  of  Judgment  will 
tell  whose  dust  lies  beneath  any  of  those  records, 
meant  by  affection  to  mark  one  small  spot  as  sa- 
cred to  some  cherished  memory.  Shame  ! shame  ! 
shame ! — that  is  all  I can  say.  It  was  on  public 
thoroughfares,  under  the  eye  of  authority,  that 
this  infamy  was  enacted.  The  red  Indians  would 
have  known  better  ; the  selectmen  of  an  African 
kraal-village  would  have  had  more  respect  for  their 
ancestors.  I should  like  to  see  the  gravestones 
which  have  been  disturbed  all  removed,  and  the 
ground  levelled,  leaving  the  flat  tombstones ; epi- 
taphs were  never  famous  for  truth,  but  the  old  re- 
proach of  “ Here  lies  ” never  had  such  a wholesale 
illustration  as  in  these  outraged  burial-places. 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


294 

where  the  stone  does  lie  above,  and  the  bones 
do  not  lie  beneath.] 

Stop  before  we  turn  away,  and  breathe  a wo- 
man’s sigh  over  poor  Benjamin's  dust.  Love 
killed  him,  I think.  Twenty  years  old,  and  out 
there  fighting  another  young  fellow  on  the  Com- 
mon, in  the  cool  of  that  old  July  evening  ; — yes, 
there  must  have  been  love  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

The  schoolmistress  dropped  a rose-bud  she  had 
in  her  hand,  through  the  rails,  upon  the  grave  of 
Benjamin  Woodbridge.  That  was  all  her  com- 
ment upon  what  I Told  her.  — How  women  love 
Love,  said  I ; — but  she  did  not  speak. 

We  came  opposite  the  head  of  a place  or  court 
running  eastward  from  the  main  street.  — Look 
down  there,  — I said.  — My  friend  the  Professor 
lived  in  that  house  at  the  left  hand,  next  the  far- 
ther corner,  for  years  and  years.  He  died  out  of 
it,  the  other  day.  — Died'?  — said  the  schoolmis- 
tress.— Certainly, — said  I.  — We  die  out  of 
houses,  just  as  we  die  out  of  our  bodies.  A com- 
mercial smash  kills  a hundred  men’s  houses  for 
them,  as  a railroad  crash  kills  their  mortal  frames 
and  drives  out  the  immortal  tenants.  Men  sicken 
of  houses  until  at  last  they  quit  them,  as  the  soul 
leaves  its  body  when  it  is  tired  of  its  infirmities. 
The  body  has  been  called  “ the  house  we  live  in  ” ; 
the  house  is  quite  as  much  the  body  we  live  in. 
Shall  I tell  you  some  things  the  Professor  said  the 
other  day  ? — Do  ! — said  the  schoolmistress. 


OF  TI1E  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


295 

A man’s  body,  — said  the  Professor,  — is  what" 
ever  is  occupied  by  his  will  and  his  sensibility. 
The  small  room  down  there,  where  I wrote  those 
papers  you  remember  reading,  was  much  more  a 
portion  of  my  body  than  a paralytic’s  senseless 
and  motionless  arm  or  leg  is  of  his. 

The  soul  of  a man  has  a series  of  concentric 
envelopes  round  it,  like  the  core  of  an  onion,  or 
the  innermost  of  a nest  of  boxes.  First,  he  has 
his  natural  garment  of  flesh  and  blood.  Then, 
his  artificial  integuments,  with  their  true  skin  of 
solid  stuffs,  their  cuticle  of  lighter  tissues,  and  their 
variously-tinted  pigments.  Thirdly,  his  domicile, 
be  it  a single  chamber  or  a stately  mansion.  And 
then,  the  whole  visible  world,  in  which  Time  but- 
tons him  up  as  in  a loose  outside  wrapper. 

You  shall  observe,  — the  Professor  said,  — for, 
like  Mr.  Jphn^Hunter  and  other  great  men,  he 
brings  in  that  shall  with  great  effect  sometimes,  — 
you  shall  observe  that  a man’s  ‘Slothing  or  series 
of  envelopes  does  after  a certain  time  mould  itself 
upon  his  individual  nature.  We  know  this  of  our 
hats,  and  are  always  reminded  of  it  when  we  hap- 
pen to  put  them  on  wrong  side  foremost.  We 
soon  find  that  the  beaver  is  a hollow  cast  of  the 
skull,  with  all  its  irregular  bumps  and  depressions. 
Just  so  all  that  clothes  a man,  even  to  the  blue 
sky  which  caps  his  head,  — a.  little  loosely, — 
shapes  itself  to  fit  each  particular  being  beneath 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


296 

it.  Farmers,  sailors,  astronomers,  poets,  lovers, 
condemned  criminals,  all  find  it  different,  accord- 
ing to  the  eyes  with  which  they  severally  look. 

But  our  houses  shape  themselves  palpably  on 
our  inner  and  outer  natures.  See  a householdei 
breaking  up  and  you  will  be  sure  of  it.  There  is 
a sliell-fish  which  builds  all  manner  of  smaller 
shells  into  the  walls  of  its  own.  A house  is 
never  a home  until  we  have  crusted  it  with  the 
spoils  of  a hundred  lives  besides  those  of  our  own 
past.  See  what  these  are  and  you  can  tell  what 
the  occupant  is. 

I had  no  idea,  — said  the  Professor,  — until  I 
pulled  up  my  domestic  establishment  the  other 
day,  what  an  enormous  quantity  of  roots  I had 
been  making  during  the  years  I was  planted  there. 
Why,  there  was  n’t  a nook  or  a corner  that  some 
fibre  had  not  worked  its  way  into  ; and  when  I 
gave  the  last  wrench,  each  of  them  seemed  to 
shriek  like  a mandrake,  as  it  broke  its  hold  and 
came  away. 

There  is  nothing  that  happens,  you  know, 
which  must  not  inevitably,  and  which  does  not 
actually,  photograph  itself  in  every  conceivable 
aspect  and  in  all  dimensions.  The  infinite  gal- 
leries of  the  Past  await  but  one  brief  process  and 
all  their  pictures  will  be  called  out  and  fixed  for- 
ever. We  had  a curious  illustration  of  the  great 
fact  on  a very  humble  scale.  When  a certain 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  297 

bookcase,  long  standing  in  one  place,  for  which  it 
was  built,  was  removed,  there  was  the  exact  image 
on  the  wall  of  the  whole,  and  of  many  of  its  por- 
tions. But  in  the  midst  of  this  picture  was  an 
other,  — the  precise  outline  of  a map  which  had 
hung  on  the  wall  before  the  bookcase  was  built. 
We  had  all  forgotten  everything  about  the  map 
until  we  saw  its  photograph  on  the  wall.  Then 
we  remembered  it,  as  some  day  or  other  we  map 
remember  a sin  which  has  been  built  over  and 
covered  up,  when  this  lower  universe  is  pulled 
away  from  before  the  wall  of  Infinity,  where  the 
wrong-doing  stands  self-recorded. 

The  Professor  lived  in  that  house  a long  time, 
— not  twenty  years,  but  pretty  near  it.  When  he 
entered  that  door,  two  shadows  glided  over  the 
threshold ; five  lingered  in  the  doorway  when  he 
passed  through  it  for  the  last  time,  — and  one  of 
the  shadows  was  claimed  by  its  owner  to  be  longer 
than  his  own.  What  changes  he  saw  in  that 
quiet  place  ! Death  rained  through  every  roof 
Dut  his ; children  came  into  life,  grew  to  maturity, 
wedded,  faded  away,  threw  themselves  away ; the 
whole  drama  of  life  was  played  in  that  stock-com- 
pany’s theatre  of  a dozen  houses,  one  of  which 
was  his,  and  no  deep  sorrow  or  severe  calamity 
ever  entered  his  dwelling.  Peace  be  to  those 
walls,  forever,  — the  Professor  said,  — for  the 
many  pleasant  years  he  has  passed  within  them ! 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


298 

The  Professor  has  a friend,  now  living  at  a dis- 
tance, who  has  been  with  him  in  many  of  his 
changes  of  place,  and  who  follows  him  in  imagina- 
tion with  tender  interest  wherever  he  goes.  — In 
that  little  court,  where  he  lived  in  gay  loneliness 
so  long, — 

— in  his  autumnal  sojourn  by  the  Connecticut, 
where  it  comes  loitering  down  from  its  mountain 
fastnesses  like  a great  lord,  swallowing  up  the 
small  proprietary  rivulets  very  quietly  as  it  goes, 
until  it  gets  proud  and  swollen  and  wantons  in 
huge  luxurious  oxbows  about  the  fair  Northamp- 
ton meadows,  and  at  last  overflows  the  oldest  in- 
habitant’s memory  in  profligate  freshets  at  Hart- 
ford and  all  along  its  lower  shores, — up  in  that 
caravansary  on  the  banks  of  the  stream  where 
Ledyard  launched  his  log  canoe,  and  the  jovial 
old  Colonel  used  to  lead  the  Commencement  pro- 
cessions, — where  blue  Ascutnev  looked  down 
from  the  far  distance,  and  the  hills  of  Beulah, 
as  the  Professor  always  called  them,  rolled  up  the 
opposite  horizon  in  soft  climbing  masses,  so  sug- 
gestive of  the  Pilgrim’s  Heavenward  Path  that  he 
used  to  look  through  his  old  “Dollond”  to  see 
if  the  Shining  Ones  were  not  within  range  of 
sight,  — sweet  visions,  sweetest  in  those  Sunday 
walks  which  carry  them  by  the  peaceful  common, 
through  the  solemn  village  lying  in  cataleptic  still- 
ness under  the  shadow  of  the  rod  of  Moses,  to  the 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  299 

terminus  of  their  harmless  stroll,  — the  patulous 
fage,  in  the  Professor’s  classic  dialect,  — the 
spreading  beech,  in  more  familiar  phrase,  — [stop 
and  breathe  here  a moment,  for  the  sentence  is 
not  done  yet,  and  we  have  another  long  journey 
before  us,]  — 

— and  again  once  more  up  among  those  other 
hills  that  shut  in  the  amber-flowing  Housatonic, 
— dark  stream,  but  clear,  like  the  lucid  orbs  that 
shine  beneath  the  lids  of  auburn-haired,  sherry- 
wine-eyed  demi-blondes,  — in  the  home  overlook- 
ing the  winding  stream  and  the  smooth,  flat 
meadow  ; looked  down  upon  by  wild  hills,  where 
the  tracks  of  bears  and  catamounts  may  yet  some- 
times be  seen  upon  the  winter  snow ; facing  the 
twin  summits  which  rise  in  the  far  North,  the 
highest  waves  of  the  great  land-storm  in  all  this 
billowy  region,  — suggestive  to  mad  fancies  of 
the  breasts  of  a half-buried  Titaness,  stretched 
out  by  a stray  thunderbolt,  and  hastily  hidden 
away  beneath  the  leaves  of  the  forest,  — in 
that  home  where  seven  blessed  summers  were 
passed,  which  stand  in  memory  like  the  seven 
golden  candlesticks  in  the  beatific  vision  of  the 
holy  dreamer, — 

— in  that  modest  dwelling  we  were  just  looking 
at,  not  glorious,  yet  not  unlovely  in  the  youth  of 
its  drab  and  mahogany,  — full  of  great  and  little 
Doys'  playthings  from  top  to  bottom,  — in  all 


300  THE  AUTOCRAT 

these  summer  or  winter  nests  he  was  always  at 
home  and  always  welcome. 

This  long  articulated  sigh  of  reminiscences, — 
this  calenture  which  shows  me  the  maple-shadowed 
plains  of  Berkshire  and  the  mountain-circled  green 
of  Grafton  beneath  the  salt  waves  which  come 
feeling  their  way  along  the  wall  at  my  feet,  rest- 
less and  soft-touching  as  blind  men’s  busy  fingers, 
— is  for  that  friend  of  mine1  who  looks  into  the  wa- 
ters of  the  Patapsco  and  sees  beneath  them  the 
same  visions  which  paint  themselves  for  me  in  the 
green  depths  of  the  Charles. 

Did  I talk  all  this  off  to  the  schoolmis- 
tress ? — Why,  no,  of  course  not.  I have  been 
talking  with  you,  the  reader,  for  the  last  ten 
minutes.  You  don’t  think  I should  expect  any 
woman  to  listen  to  such  a sentence  as  that  long 
V one,  without  giving  her  a chance  to  put  in  a 
word  ? 

What  did  I say  to  the  schoolmistress  ? — 

Permit  me  one  moment.  I don’t  doubt  your 
delicacy  and  good-breeding ; but  in  this  particular 
case,  as  I was  allowed  the  privilege  of  walking 
alone  with  a very  interesting  young  woman,  you 
must  allow  me  to  remark,  in  the  classic  version 
of  a familiar  phrase,  used  by  our  Master  Benjamin 
Franklin,  it  is  nullum  tui  negotii. 

When  the  schoolmistress  and  I reached  the 
school-room  door,  the  damask  roses  I spoke  of 
1 Note  u. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


3°i 

were  so  much  heightened  in  color  by  exercise  that 
I felt  sure  it  would  be  useful  to  her  to  take  a stroll 
like  this  every  morning,  and  made  up  my  mind  1 
would  ask  her  to  let  me  join  her  again. 

EXTRACT  FROM  MY  PRIVATE  JOURNAL. 

(To  be  burned  unread.) 

I am  afraid  I have  been  a fool ; for  I have  told 
as  much  of  myself  to  this  young  person  as  if  she 
were  of  that  ripe  and  discreet  age  which  invites 
confidence  and  expansive  utterance.  I have  been 
low-spirited  and  listless,  lately,  — it  is  coffee,  I 
think,  — (I  observe  that  which  is  bought  ready- 
ground  never  affects  the  head,)  — and  I notice  that 
I tell  my  secrets  too  easily  when  I am  down- 
hearted. 

There  are  inscriptions  on  our  hearts,  which, 
like  that  on  Dighton  Rock,  are  never  to  be  seen 
except  at  dead-lowr  tide. 

There  is  a woman's  footstep  on  the  sand  at  the 
side  of  my  deepest  ocean-buried  inscription  ! 

O no,  no,  no  ! a thousand  times,  no  ! — • 

Yet  what  is  this  which  has  been  shaping  itself  in 
my  soul  ? — Is  it  a thought  ? — is  it  a dream  ? — 
is  it  a passion  ? — Then  I know  what  comes  next. 

The  Asylum  stands  on  a bright  and  breezy 

hill ; those  glazed  corridors  are  pleasant  to  walk 
in,  in  bad  weather.  But  there  are  iron  bars  to  all 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


302 

the  windows.  When  it  is  fair,  some  of  us  can 
stroll  outside  that  very  high  fence.  But  I neve« 
see  much  life  in  those  groups  I sometimes  meet ; 
— and  then  the  careful  man  watches  them  so 
closely ! How  I remember  that  sad  company  I 
used  to  pass  on  fine  mornings,  when  I was  a 
school-boy  ! — B.,  with  his  arms  full  of  yellow 
weeds,  — ore  from  the  gold-mines  which  he  dis- 
covered long  before  we  heard  of  California,  — Y., 
born  to  millions,  crazed  by  too  much  plum-cake 
(the  boys  said),  dogged,  explosive,  — made  a Poly- 
phemus of  my  weak-eyed  schoolmaster,  by  a vi- 
cious flirt  with  a stick,  — (the  multi-millionnaires 
sent  him  a trifle,  it  was  said,  to  buy  another  eye 
with ; but  boys  are  jealous  of  rich  folks,  and  I 
don’t  doubt  the  good  people  made  him  easy  for 
life,)  — how  I remember  them  all! 

I recollect,  as  all  do,  the  story  of  the  Hall  of 
Eblis,  in  “Vathek,”  and  how  each  shape,  as  it 
lifted  its  hand  from  its  breast,  showed  its  heart,  — 
a burning  coal.  The  real  Hall  of  Eblis  stands  on 
yonder  summit.  Go  there  on  the  next  visiting- 
day,  and  ask  that  figure  crouched  in  the  corner, 
huddled  up  like  those  Indian  mummies  and  skel- 
etons found  buried  in  the  sitting  posture,  to  lift 
its  hand, — look  upon  its  heart,  and  behold,  not 
fire,  but  ashes.  — No,  I must  not  think  of  such  an 
ending ! Dying  would  be  a much  more  gentle- 
manly way  of  meeting  the  difficulty.  Make  a will 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  303 

and  leave  her  a house  or  two  and  some  stocks, 
arid  other  little  financial  conveniences,  to  take 
away  her  necessity  for  keeping  school.  — I won- 
der what  nice  young  man’s  feet  would  be  in  my 
French  slippers  before  six  months  were  over ! 
Well,  what  then 2 If  a man  really  loves  a wo- 
man, of  course  he  would  n’t  marry  her  for  the 
tvorld,  if  he  were  not  quite  sure  that  he  was  the 
best  person  she  could  by  any  possibility  marry. 

It  is  odd  enough  to  read  over  what  I have 

just  been  writing.  — It  is  the  merest  fancy  that 
ever  was  in  the  world.  I shall  never  be  married. 
She  will ; and  if  she  is  as  pleasant  as  she  has  been 
so  far,  I will  give  her  a silver  tea-set,  and  go  and 
take  tea  with  her  and  her  husband,  sometimes. 
No  coffee,  I hope,  though,  — it  depresses  me  sadly. 
I feel  very  miserably ; — they  must  have  been  grind- 
ing it  at  home.  — Another  morning  walk  will  be 
good  for  me,  and  I don’t  doubt  the  schoolmistress 
will  be  glad  of  a little  fresh  air  before  school 

The  throbbing  flushes  of  the  poetical  in- 
termittent have  been  coming  over  me  from  time  to 
time  of  late.  Did  you  ever  see  that  electrical  ex- 
periment which  consists  in  passing  a flash  through 
letters  of  gold  leaf  in  a darkened  room,  whereupon 
some  name  or  legend  springs  out  of  the  darkness 
in  characters  of  fire  ? 

-here  are  songs  all  written  out  in  my  soul, 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


3°4 

which  I could  read,  if  the  flash  might  pass 
through  them,  — but  the  fire  must  come  down 
from  heaven.  Ah  ! but  what  if  the  stormy  nim- 
bus of  youthful  passion  has  blown  by,  and  one 
asks  for  lightning  from  the  ragged  cirrus  of  dis- 
solving aspirations,  or  the  silvered  cumulus  of 
sluggish  satiety  ? I will  call  on  her  whom  the 
dead  poets  believed  in,  whom  living  ones  no 
longer  worship,  — the  immortal  maid,  who,  name 
her  what  you  will,  — Goddess,  Muse,  Spirit  of 
Beauty,  — sits  by  the  pillow  of  every  youthful 
poet,  and  bends  over  his  pale  forehead  until  her 
tresses  lie  upon  his  cheek  and  rain  their  gold  into 
his  dreams. 


MUSA. 

0 my  lost  Beauty  ! — hast  thou  folded  quite 
Thy  wings  of  morning  light 
Beyond  those  iron  gates 

Where  Life  crowds  hurrying  to  the  haggard  Fates, 

And  Age  upon  his  mound  of  ashes  waits 
To  chill  our  fiery  dreams, 

Hot  from  the  heart  of  youth  plunged  in  his  icy  streams  ? 

Leave  me  not  fading  in  these  weeds  of  care, 

Whose  flowers  are  silvered  hair  ! — 

Have  I not  loved  thee  long, 

Though  my  young  lips  have  often  done  thee  wrong 

And  vexed  thy  heaven-tuned  ear  with  careless  song  ? 
Ah,  wilt  thou  yet  return, 

Bearing  thy  rose-hued  torch,  and  bid  thine  altar  burn  ? 

Come  to  me  ! — I will  flood  thy  silent  shrine 
With  my  soul’s  sacred  wine, 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


3°5 

A nd  heap  thy  marble  floors 
As  the  wild  spice-trees  waste  their  fragrant  stores 
In  leafy  islands  walled  with  madrepores 
And  lapped  in  Orient  seas, 

When  all  their  feathery  palms  toss,  plume-like,  in  the  breeze 

Come  to  me  ! — thou  shalt  feed  on  honeyed  words, 

Sweeter  than  song  of  birds  *,  — 

No  wailing  bulbul’s  throat, 

No  melting  dulcimer’s  melodious  note, 

When  o’er  the  midnight  wave  its  murmurs  float, 

Thy  ravished  sense  might  soothe 
With  flow  so  liquid-soft,  with  strain  so  velvet-smooth. 

Thou  shalt  be  decked  with  jewels,  like  a queen, 

Sought  in  those  bowers  of  green 
Where  loop  the  clustered  vines 
And  the  close-clinging  dulcamara  twines, — 

Pure  pearls  of  Maydew  where  the  moonlight  shines, 

And  Summer’s  fruited  gems, 

And  coral  pendants  shorn  from  Autumn’s  berried  stems 

Sit  by  me  drifting  on  the  sleepy  waves,  — 

Or  stretched  by  grass-grown  graves, 

Whose  gray,  high-shouldered  stones, 

Carved  with  old  names  Life’s  time-worn  roll  disowns, 

Lean,  lichen-spotted,  o’er  the  crumbled  bones 
Still  slumbering  where  they  lay 
While  the  sad  Pilgrim  watched  to  scare  the  wolf  away. 

Spread  o’er  my  couch  thy  visionary  wing  ! 

Still  let  me  dream  and  sing, — 

Dream  of  that  winding  shore 
Where  scarlet  cardinals  bloom,  — for  me  no  more,  — 

The  stream  with  heaven  beneath  its  liquid  floor, 

And  clustering  nenuphars 

Sprinkling  its  mirrored  blue  like  golden-chaliced  stars 

Come  while  their  balms  the  linden-blossoms  shed  1 — 

Come  while  the  rose  is  red,  — 

20 


3°o 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


While  blue-eyed  Summer  smiles 
On  the  green  ripples  round  yon  sunken  piles 
Washed  by  the  moon-wave  warm ‘from  Indian  isles, 

And  on  the  sultry  air 

The  chestnuts  spread  their  palms  like  holy  men  In  prayer  ! 

0 for  thy  burning  lips  to  fire  my  brain 

With  thrills  of  wild,  sweet  pain  ! — 

On  life’s  autumnal  blast, 

Like  shrivelled  leaves,  youth’s  passion-flowers  are  cast, — 
Once  loving  thee,  we  love  thee  to  the  la bt ! — 

Behold  thy  new-decked  shrine, 

And  hear  once  more  the  voice  that  breathed  44  Forever  thine  1 ** 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


3°7 


XI. 

HE  company  looked  a little  flustered 
one  morning  when  I came  in,  — so 
much  so,  that  I inquired  of  my  neigh- 
bor, the  divinity-student,  what  had  been 
going  on.  It  appears  that  the  young  fellow  whom 
ihey  call  John  had  taken  advantage  of  my  being  a 
little  late  (I  having  been  rather  longer  than  usual 
dressing  that  morning)  to  circulate  several  ques- 
tions involving  a quibble  or  play  upon  words,  — 
in  short,  containing  that  indignity  to  the  human 
understanding,  condemned  in  the  passages  from 
the  distinguished  moralist  of  the  last  century  and 
the  illustrious  historian  of  the  present,  which  I 
cited  on  a former  occasion,  and  known  a saLt£m.__ 
After  breakfast,  one  of  the  boarders  handed  me  a 
small  roll  of  paper  containing  some  of  the  ques- 
tions and  their  answers.  I subjoin  two  or  three 
of  them,  to  show  what  a tendency  there  is  to  fri- 
volity and  meaningless  talk  in  young  persons  of  a 
certain  sort,  when  not  restrained  by  the  presence 
of  more  reflective  natures.  — It  was  asked,  “ Why 
tertian  and  quartan  fevers  were  like  certain  short- 
lived insects.”  Some  interesting  physiological 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


308 

relation  would  be  naturally  suggested.  The  in- 
quirer blushes  to  find  that  the  answer  is  in  the 
paltry  equivocation,  that  they  skip  a day  or  two. 

— “ Why  an  Englishman  must  go  to  the  Conti- 
nent to  weaken  his  grog  or  punch.”  The  answer 
proves  to  have  no  relation  whatever  to  the  temper- 
ance movement,  as  no  better  reason  is  given  than 
that  island-  (or,  as  it  is  absurdly  written,  ile  and) 
water  won't  mix.  — But  when  I came  to  the  next 
question  and  its  answer,  I felt  that  patience  ceased 
to  be  a virtue.  “ Why  an  onion  is  like  a piano  ” 
is  a query  that  a person  of  sensibility  would  be 
slow  to  propose ; but  that  in  an  educated  com- 
munity an  individual  could  be  found  to  answer  it 
in  these  words,  — “ Because  it  smell  odious,” 
t {uasiy  it *s  melodious,  — is  not  credible,  but  too 
true.  I can  show  you  the  paper. 

Dear  reader,  I beg  your  pardon  for  repeating 
such  things.  I know  most  conversations  reported 
in  books  are  altogether  above  such  trivial  details, 
but  folly  will  come  up  at  every  table  as  surely  as 
purslain  and  chickweed  and  sorrel  will  come  up  in 
gardens.  This  young  fellow  ought  to  have  talked 
philosophy,  I know  perfectly  well ; but  he  did  n’t, 

■ — he  made  jokes.] 

I am  willing,  — I said,  — to  exercise  your  in- 
genuity in  a rational  and  contemplative  manner. 

— No,  I do  not  proscribe  certain  forms  of  philo- 
sophical speculation  which  involve  an  approach  to 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  309 

the  absurd  or  the  ludicrous,  such  as  you  may  find, 
for  example,  in  the  folio  of  the  Reverend  Father 
Thomas  Sanchez,  in  his  famous  Disputations, 
“ De  Sancto  Matrimonio.”  I will  therefore  turn 
this  levity  of  yours  to  profit  by  reading  you  a 
rhymed  problem,  wrought  out  by  my  friend  the 
Professor. 

THE  DEACON’S  MASTERPIECE  : 

OR  THE  WONDERFUL  “ ONE-HOSS  SHAY” 

A LOGICAL  STORY. 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 

That  was  built  in  such  a logical  way 
It  ran  a hundred  years  to  a day, 

And  then,  of  a sudden,  it ah,  but  stay, 

I ’ll  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay, 

Scaring  the  parson  into  fits, 

Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits,  — 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I say  ? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five. 

Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive,  — 

Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 

That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 

And  Braddock’s  army  was  done  so  brown, 

Left  without  a scalp  to  its  crown. 

It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss  shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I tell  you  what, 

There  is  always  somewhere  a weakest  spot,  *— 

In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thHl, 

In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace,  — lurking  still, 

Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will, — 

Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without,  — 

And  that  ‘s  the  reason,  beyond  a doubt, 

A chaise  breaks  down , but  doesn’t  wear  out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore,  (as  Deacons  do, 

With  an  “ I dew  vum,”  or  an  “ I tell  yrott,”) 

He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
’n’  the  keounty  ’n’  all  the  kentry  raoun’  •, 

It  should  be  so  built  that  it  could  n ’ break  daown 
— “ Fur,”  said  the  Deacon,  u’t ’s  mighty  plain 
Thut  the  weakes’  place  mus’  stan’  the  strain  j 
’n’  the  way  t’  fix  it,  uz  I maintain, 

Is  only  jest 

T’  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest.” 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 
Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 

That  could  n’t  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke, — 

That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and  sills  \ 

He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the  thills  ; 

The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straightest  trees  { 
The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like  cheese, 
But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these  ; 

The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  “ Settler’s  ellum,”  — » 
Last  of  its  timber,  — they  could  n’t  sell  ’em, 

Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips, 

And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips, 

Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips  j 
Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw, 

Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 

Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue  ; 

Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide  \ 

Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 
Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 

That  was  the  way  he  “ put  her  through.”  — 

“ There  ! ” said  the  Deacon,  “ naow  she  ’ll  dew.” 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 


3 


Do  ! I tell  you,  I rather  guess 

Sht ^ was  a wonder,  and  nothing  less  ! 

Col  ts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 

De  acon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 

Children  and  grandchildren  — where  were  they? 
But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay 
As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day  ! 

Eighteen  hundred  ; it  came  and  found 
The  Deacon’s  masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten  ; — 
“Hahnsum  kerridge  ” they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came  ; — 

Running  as  usual ; much  the  same. 

Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive, 

And  then  come  fifty,  and  fifty-five. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 

In  fact  there ’s  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth, 

So  far  as  I know,  but  a tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a moral  that  runs  at  large  ; 

Take  it.  — You  ’re  welcome.  — No  extra  charge.) 

First  of  November,  — the  Earthquake-day.  — 
There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss  shay, 

A general  flavor  of  mild  decay, 

But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  say. 

There  could  n’t  be,  — for  the  Deacon’s  art 

Ha  l made  it  so  like  in  every  jsart 

That  there  was  n’t  a chance  for  one  to  start. 

For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills, 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 

And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 

And  the  whippletree  neither  less  nor  more, 

And  the  back-crossbar  as  strong  as*  the  fore, 

And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 


312 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


And  yet,  as  a whole , it  is  past  a doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out  l 

First  of  November,  ’Fifty-five  ! 

This  morning  the  parson  takes  a drive. 

Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way  ! 

Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 
Drawn  by  a rat  tailed,  ewe -necked  bay. 

“ Huddup  ! ” said  the  parson.  — Off  went  they. 


The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday’s  text, — 
Had  got  to  fifthly , and  stopped  perplexed 
At  what  the  — Moses  — was  coming  next. 

All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 

Close  by  the  meet’n’-house  on  the  hill. 

— First  a shiver,  and  then  a thrill, 

Then  something  decidedly  like  a spill,  — 

And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a rock, 

At  half  past  nine  by  the  meet’n’-house  clock,— 
Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock  ! 

— What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 

When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 

The  poor  old  chaise  in  a heap  or  mound, 

As  if  it  bad  been  to  the  mill  and  ground  ! 

You  see,  of  course,  if  you  ’re  not  a duDce, 

How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once,  — 

All  at  once,  and  nothing  first, — 

Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 


End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 

Logic  is  logic.  That ’s  all  I say. 

1 think  there  is  one  habit,  — I said  to  our 

company  a day  or  two  afterwards,  — worse  than 
that  of  punning.  It  is  the  gradual  substitution 
&f  cant  or  slang  terms  for  words  which  truly  char* 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


31 3 

acterize  their  objects.  I have  known  several  very 
genteel  idiots  whose  whole  vocabulary  had  deli- 
quesced into  some  half-dozen  expressions.  All 
things  fell  into  one  of  two  great  categories,  — fast 
or  slow.  Man's  chief  end  was  to  be  a brick.  When 
the  great  calamities  of  life  overtook  their  friends, 
these  last  were  spoken  of  as  being  a good  deal  cut 
up.  Nine  tenths  of  human  existence  were  summed 
up  in  the  single  word,  bore.  These  expressions  come 
to  be  the  algebraic  symbols  of  minds  which  have 
grown  too  weak  or  indolent  to  discriminate.  They 
are  the  blank  checks  of  intellectual  bankruptcy ; — 
you  may  fill  them  up  with  what  idea  you  like ; it 
makes  no  difference,  for  there  are  no  funds  in  the 
treasury  upon  which  they  are  drawn.  Colleges 
and  good-for-nothing  smoking-clubs  are  the  places 
where  these  conversational  fungi  spring  up  most 
luxuriantly.  Don’t  think  I undervalue  the  proper 
use  and  application  of  a cant  word  or  phrase.  It 
adds  piquancy  to  conversation,  as  a mushroom 
does  to  a sauce.  But  it  is  no  better  than  a toad- 
stool, odious  to  the  sense  and  poisonous  to  the  in- 
tellect, when  it  spawns  itself  all  over  the  talk  of 
men  and  youths  capable  of  talking,  as  it  some- 
times does.  As  we  hear  flash  phraseology,  it  is 
commonly  the  dishwater  from  the  washings  of 
Emglish  dandyism,  school-boy  or  full-grown,  wrung 
out  of  a three-volume  novel  which  had  sopped  it 
up,  or  decanted  from  the  pictured  urn  of  Mr.  Yer* 


3i4  THE  AUTOCRAT 

dant  Green,  and  diluted  to  suit  the  provincial  cli 
mate. 

The  young  fellow  called  John  spoke  up 

sharply  and  said,  it  was  “ rum  ” to  hear  me 
“ pitchin’  into  fellers  ” for  “ goin’  it  in  the  slang 
line,”  when  I used  all  the  flash  words  myself  just 
when  I pleased. 

I replied  with  my  usual  forbearance.  — 

Certainly,  to  give  up  the  algebraic  symbol,  be- 
cause a or  b is  often  a cover  for  ideal  nihility, 
would  be  unwise.  I have  heard  a child  laboring 
to  express  a certain  condition,  involving  a hither- 
to undescribed  sensation,  (as  it  supposed,)  all  of 
which  could  have  been  sufficiently  explained  by 
the  participle  — bored.  I have  seen  a country 
clergyman,  with  a one-storj  intellect  and  a one- 
horse  vocabulary,  who  has  consumed  his  valuable 
time  (and  mine)  freely,  in  developing  an  opinion 
of  a brother-minister’s  discourse  which  would  have 
been  abundantly  characterized  by  a peach-down- 
lipped sophomore  in  the  one  word  — slow.  Let 
us  discriminate,  and  be  shy  of  absolute  proscrip- 
tion. I am  omniverbivorous  by  nature  and  train- 
ing. Passing  by  such  words  as  are  poisonous,  I 
can  swallow  most  others,  and  chew  such  as  I can- 
not swallow. 

Dandies  are  not  good  for  much,  but  they  are 
good  for  something.  They  invent  or  keep  in 
circulation  those  conversational  blank  checks  oi 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  315 

tounters  just  spoken  of,  which  intellectual  capital- 
ists may  sometimes  find  it  worth  their  while  to 
borrow  of  them.  They  are  useful,  too,  in  keep- 
ing up  the  standard  of  dress,  which,  but  for  them, 
would  deteriorate,  and  become,  what  some  old 
fools  would  have  it,  a matter  of  convenience,  and 
not  of  taste  and  art.  Yes,  I like  dandies  well 
enough,  — on  one  condition. 

What  is  that,  sir  ? — said  the  divinity-stu- 
dent. 

That  they  have  pluck.  I find  that  lies  at 

the  bottom  of  all  true  dandyism.  A little  boy 
dressed  up  very  fine,  who  puts  his  finger  in  his 
mouth  and  takes  to  crying,  if  other  boys  make 
fun  of  him,  looks  very  silly.  But  if  he  turns  red 
in  the  face  and  knotty  in  the  fists,  and  makes  an 
example  of  the  biggest  of  his  assailants,  throwing 
off  his  fine  Leghorn  and  his  thickly-buttoned  jack- 
et, if  necessary,  to  consummate  the  act  of  justice, 
his  small  toggery  takes  on  the  splendors  of  the 
crested  helmet  that  frightened  Astyanax.  You  re- 
member that  the  Duke  said  his  dandy  officers  were 
his  best  officers.  The  “ Sunday  blood,”  the  super- 
superb  sartorial  equestrian  of  our  annual  Fast- 
day,  is  not  imposing  or  dangerous.  But  such  fel- 
lows as  Brummel  and  D’Orsay  and  Byron  are  not 
,0  be  snubbed  quite  so  easily.  Look  out  for  “ la 
main  de  fer  sous  le  gant  de  velours,”  (which  I 
Glinted  in  English  the  other  day  without  quota- 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


316 

tion-marks,  thinking  whether  any  scarabceus  criticus 
would  add  this  to  his  globe  and  roll  in  glory  with 
it  into  the  newspapers,  — which  he  did  n’t  do  it, 
in  the  charming  pleonasm  of  the  London  language, 
and  therefore  I claim  the  sole  merit  of  exposing 
the  same.)  A good  many  powerful  and  danger- 
ous people  have  had  a decided  dash  of  dandyism 
about  them.  There  was  Alcibiades,  the  “ curled 
son  of  Clinias,”  an  accomplished  young  man,  but 
what  would  be  called  a “ swell  ” in  these  days. 
There  was  Aristoteles,  a very  distinguished  writer, 
of  whom  you  have  heard,  — a philosopher,  in 
short,  w'hom  it  took  centuries  to  learn,  centuries 
to  unlearn,  and  is  now  going  to  take  a generation 
or  more  to  learn  over  again.  Regular  dandy,  he 
was.  So  was  Marcus  Antonius ; and  though  he 
lost  his  game,  he  played  for  big  stakes,  and  it 
was  n’t  his  dandyism  that  spoiled  his  chance. 
Petrarca  was  not  to  be  despised  as  a scholar  or  a 
poet,  but  he  was  one  of  the  same  sort.  So  was 
Sir  Humphrey  Davy;  so  was  Lord  Palmerston, 
formerly,  if  I am  not  forgetful.  Yes,  — a dandy 
is  good  for  something  as  such ; and  dandies  such 
as  I was  just  speaking  of  have  rocked  this  planet 
like  a cradle,  — ay,  and  left  it  swinging  to  this 
day.  — Still,  if  I were  you,  I would  n’t  go  to  the 
tailor’s,  on  the  strength  of  these  remarks,  and  run 
up  a long  bill  which  will  render  pockets  a super- 
fluity in  your  next  suit.  Elegans  “ nascitur,  non 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE 


3 1 7 

fit.*9  A man  is  born  a dandy,  as  he  is  born  a 
poet.  There  are  heads  that  can’t  wear  hats ; 
there  are  necks  that  can’t  fit  cravats  ; there  are 
jaws  that  can’t  fill  out  collars  — (Willis  touched 
this  last  point  in  one  of  his  earlier  ambrotypes,  if 
I remember  rightly) ; there  are  tournures  nothing 
can  humanize,  and  movements  nothing  can  sub- 
due to  the  gracious  suavity  or  elegant  languor  or 
stately  serenity  which  belong  to  different  styles  of 
dandyism. 

We  are  forming  an  aristocracy,  as  you  may  ob- 
serve, in  this  country,  — not  a gratia-Dei,  nor  a 
jure-divino  one,  — but  a de-facto  upper  stratum  of 
being,  which  floats  over  the  turbid  waves  of  com- 
mon life  like  the  iridescent  film  you  may  have 
seen  spreading  over  the  water  about  our  wharves, 
— very  splendid,  though  its  origin  may  have  been 
tar,  tallow,  train-oil,  or  other  such  unctuous  com- 
modities. I say,  then,  we  are  forming  an  aristoc- 
racy ; and,  transitory  as  its  individual  life  often 
is,  it  maintains  itself  tolerably,  as  a whole.  Of 
course,  money  is  its  corner-stone.  But  now  ob- 
serve this.  Money  kept  for  two  or  three  genera- 
tions transforms  a race,  — I don’t  mean  merely  in 
manners  and  hereditary  culture,  but  in  blood  and 
bone.  Money  buys  air  and  sunshine,  in  which 
children  grow  up  more  kindly,  of  course,  than  in 
elose,  back  streets ; it  buys  country-places  to  give 
them  happy  and  healthy  summers,  good  nursing, 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


318 

good  doctoring,  and  the  best  cuts  of  beef  and  mut- 
ton. When  the  spring-chickens  come  to  market 

I beg  your  pardon,  — that  is  not  what  I was 

going  to  speak  of.  As  the  young  females  of  each 
successive  season  come  on,  the  finest  specimens 
among  them,  other  things  being  equal,  are  apt  to 
attract  those  who  can  afford  the  expensive  luxury 
of  beauty.  The  physical  character  of  the  next 
generation  rises  in  consequence.  It  is  plain  that 
certain  families  have  in  this  way  acquired  an  ele- 
vated type  of  face  and  figure,  and  that  in  a small 
circle  of  city  connections  one  may  sometimes  find 
models  of  both  sexes  which  one  of  the  rural  coun- 
ties would  find  it  hard  to  match  from  all  its  town- 
ships put  together.  Because  there  is  a good  deal 
of  running  down,  of  degeneration  and  waste  of 
life,  among  the  richer  classes,  you  must  not  over- 
look the  equally  obvious  fact  I have  just  spoken 
of,  — which  in  one  or  two  generations  more  will 
be,  I think,  much  more  patent  than  just  now. 

The  weak  point  in  our  chryso-aristocracy  is  the 
same  I have  alluded  to  in  connection  with  cheap 
dandyism.  Its  thorough  manhood,  its  high-caste 
gallantry,  are  not  so  manifest  as  the  plate-glass  of 
its  windows  and  the  more  or  less  legitimate  her- 
aldry of  its  coach-panels.  It  is  very  curious  to 
observe  of  how  small  account  military  folks  are 
held  among  our  Northern  people.  Our  young 
men  must  gild  their  spurs,  but  they  need  not  win 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


319 

them.  The  equal  division  of  property  keeps  the 
younger  sons  of  rich  people  above  the  necessity 
of  military  service.  Thus  the  army  loses  an  ele- 
ment of  refinement,  and  the  moneyed  upper  class 
forgets  what  it  is  to  count  heroism  among  its  vir- 
tues. Still  I don't  believe  in  any  aristocracy  with- 
out pluck  as  its  backbone.  Ours  may  show  it 
when  the  time  comes,  if  it  ever  does  come.1 

These  Umted.-States  furnish  the  greatest 

market  for  intellectual  green  fruit  of  all  the  places 
in  the  world.  I think  so,  at  any  rate.  The  de- 
mand for  intellectual  labor  is  so  enormous  and  the 
market  so  far  from  nice,  that  young  talent  is  apt 
to  fare  like  unripe  gooseberries,  — get  plucked  to 
make  a fool  of.  Think  of  a country  which  buys 
eighty  thousand  copies  of  the  “ Proverbial  Philos- 
ophy," while  the  author's  admiring  countrymen 
have  been  buying  twelve  thousand  ! How  can  one 
let  his  fruit  hang  in  the  sun  until  it  gets  fully  ripe, 
while  there  are.  eighty  thousand  such  hungry 
mouths  ready  to  swallow  it  and  proclaim  its  prais- 
es 1 Consequently,  there  never  was  such  a collec- 
tion of  crude  pippins  and  half-grown  windfalls  as 
our  native  literature  displays  among  its  fruits. 
There  are  literary  green-groceries  at  every  corner, 
which  will  buy  anything,  from  a button-pear  to  a 
pine-apple.  It  takes  a long  apprenticeship  to  train 
a whole  people  to  reading  and  writing.  The 
temptation  of  money  and  fame  is  too  great  for 
1 Note  V. 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


320 

young  people.  Do  I not  remember  that  glorious 

moment  when  the  late  Mr. we  won’t  say  who, 

— editor  of  the we  won’t  say  what,  offered  me 

the  sum  of  fifty  cents  per  double-columned  quarto 
page  for  shaking  my  young  boughs  over  his  fools- 
cap apron?  Was  it  not  an  intoxicating  vision  of 
gold  and  glory  ? I should  doubtless  have  revelled 
in  its  wealth  and  splendor,  but  for  learning  that 
the  fifty  cents  was  to  be  considered  a rhetorical  em- 
bellishment, and  by  no  means  a literal  expression 
of  past  fact  or  present  intention. 

Beware  of  making  your  moral  staple  con- 
sist of  the  negative  virtues.  It  is  good  to  abstain, 
and  teach  others  to  abstain,  from  all  that  is  sinful 
or  hurtful.  But  making  a business  of  it  leads  to 
emaciation  of  character,  unless  one  feeds  largely 
also  on  the  more  nutritious  diet  of  active  sympa- 
thetic benevolence. 

1 don’t  believe  one  word  of  what  you  are 

saying,  — spoke  up  the  angular  female  in  black 
bombazine. 

I am  sorry  you  disbelieve  it,  madam,  — I said, 
and  added  softly  to  my  next  neighbor,  — but  you 
prove  it. 

The  young  fellow  sitting  near  me  winked  ; and 
the  divinity-student  said,  in  an  undertone,  — Op - 
time  dictum. 

Your  talking  Latin,  — said  I,  — reminds  me  of 
an  odd  trick  of  one  of  my  old  tutors.  He  read  so 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


321 

much  of  that  language,  that  his  English  half  turned 
into  it.  He  got  caught  in  town,  one  hot  summer, 
in  pretty  close  quarters,  and  wrote,  or  began  to 
write,  a series  of  city  pastorals.  Eclogues  he 
called  them,  and  meant  to  have  published  them  by 
subscription.  I remember  some  of  his  verses,  if 
you  want  to  hear  them.  — You,  sir,  (addressing 
myself  to  the  divinity-student,)  and  all  such  as 
have  been  through  college,  or  what  is  the  same 
thing,  received  an  honorary  legree,  will  understand 
them  without  a dictionary.  The  old  man  had  a 
great  deal  to  say  about  “ aestivation,”  as  he  called 
it,  in  opposition,  as  one  might  say,  to  hibernation. 
Intramural  aestivation,  or  town-life  in  summer,  he 
would  say,  is  a peculiar  form  of  suspended  exist- 
ence, or  semi-asphyxia.  One  wakes  up  from  it 
about  the  beginning  of  the  last  week  in  Septem- 
ber. This  is  what  I remember  of  his  poem  : — 

ESTIVATION. 

An  Unpublished  Poem , by  my  late  Latin  Tutor. 

In  candent  ire  the  solar  splendor  flames  ; 

The  foies,  languescent,  pend  from  arid  rames ; 

His  humid  front  the  cive,  anheling,  wipes, 

And  dreams  of  erring  on  ventiferous  ripes. 

How  dulce  to  vive  occult  to  mortal  eyes, 

Dorm  on  the  herb  with  none  to  supervise, 

Carp  the  suave  berries  from  the  crescent  vine, 

And  bibe  the  flow  from  longicaudate  kine  1 
21 


322 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


To  me,  alas  ! no  verdurous  visions  come, 

Save  yon  exiguous  pool’s  conferva-scum, — 

No  concave  vast  repeats  the  tender  hue 
That  laves  my  milk-jug  with  celestial  blue  1 

Me  wretched  ! Let  me  curr  to  quercine  shades 1 
Effund  your  albid  hausts,  lactiferous  maids  ! 

0,  might  I vole  to  some  umbrageous  clump,  — 
Depart,  — be  off,  — excede,  — evade,  — erump ! 


1 have  lived  by  the  sea-shore  and  by  the 

mountains.  — No,  I am  not  going  to  say  which  is 
best.  The  one  where  your  place  is  is  the  best  for 
you.  But  this  difference  there  is : you  can  do- 
mesticate mountains,  but  the  sea  is  ferce  naturce. 
You  may  have  a hut,  or  know  the  owner  of  one, 
on  the  mountain-side  ; you  see  a light  half-way  up 
its  ascent  in  the  evening,  and  you  know  there  is  a 
home,  and  you  might  share  it.  You  have  noted 
certain  trees,  perhaps ; you  know  the  particular 
zone  where  the  hemlocks  look  so  black  in  Octo- 
ber, when  the  maples  and  beeches  have  faded.  All 
its  reliefs  and  intaglios  have  electrotyped  them- 
selves in  the  medallions  that  hang  round  the  walls 
of  your  memory’s  chamber.  — The  sea  remembers 
nothing.  It  is  feline.  It  licks  your  feet,  — its 
huge  flanks  purr  very  pleasantly  for  you  ; but  it 
will  crack  your  bones  and  eat  you,  for  all  that,  and 
wipe  the  crimsoned  foam  from  its  jaws  as  if  noth- 
ing had  happened.  The  mountains  give  their  lost 
children  berries  and  water ; the  sea  mocks  their 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  325 

thirst  and  lets  them  die.  The  mountains  have  a 
grand,  stupid,  loveable  tranquillity ; the  sea  has  a 
fascinating,  treacherous  intelligence.  The  moun- 
tains lie  about  like  huge  ruminants,  their  broad 
backs  awful  to  look  upon,  but  safe  to  handle.  The 
sea  smooths  its  silver  scales,  until  you  cannot  see 
their  joints,  — but  their  shining  is  that  of  a snake’s 
belly,  after  all.  — In  deeper  suggestiveness  I find 
as  great  a difference.  The  mountains  dwarf  man- 
kind and  foreshorten  the  procession  of  its  long 
generations.  The  sea  drowns  out  humanity  and 
time ; it  has  no  sympathy  with  either ; for  it  be- 
longs to  eternity,  and  of  that  it  sings  its  monoto- 
nous song  for  ever  and  ever. 

Yet  I should  love  to  have  a little  box  by  the 
sea-shore.  I should  love  to  gaze  out  on  the  wild 
Feline  element  from  a front  window  of  my  own, 
just  as  I should  love  to  look  on  a caged  panther, 
and  see  it  stretch  its  shining  length,  and  then  curl 
over  and  lap  its  smooth  sides,  and  by  and  by  begin 
to  lash  itself  into  rage  and  show  its  white  teeth  and 
spring  at  its  bars,  and  howl  the  cry  of  its  mad,  but, 
to  me,  harmless  fury.  — And  then,  — to  look  at  it 
with  that  inward  eye,  — who  does  not  love  to  shuf- 
fle off  time  and  its  concerns,  at  intervals,  — to  for- 
get who  is  President  and  who  is  Governor,  what 
race  he  belongs  to,  what  language  he  speaks, 
which  golden-headed  nail  of  the  firmament  his  par- 
ticular planetary  system  is  hung  upon,  and  listen 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


324 

to  the  great  liquid  metronome  as  it  beats  its  sol- 
emn measure,  steadily  swinging  when  the  solo  or 
duet  of  human  life  began,  and  to  swing  just  as 
steadily  after  the  human  chorus  has  died  out  and 
man  is  a fossil  on  its  shores  ? 

What  should  decide  one,  in  choosing  a 

summer  residence  ? — Constitution,  first  of  all. 
How  much  snow  could  you  melt  in  an  hour,  if 
you  were  planted  in  a hogshead  of  it  ? Comfort 
is  essential  to  enjoyment.  All  sensitive  people 
should  remember  that  persons  in  easy  circumstan- 
ces suffer  much  more  from  cold  in  summer  — that 
is,  the  warm  half  of  the  year  — than  in  winter,  or 
the  other  half.  You  must  cut  your  climate  to 
your  constitution,  as  much  as  your  clothing  to 
your  shape.  After  this,  consult  your  taste  and 
convenience.  But  if  you  would  be  happy  in  Berk- 
shire, you  must  carry  mountains  in  your  brain  , 
and  if  you  would  enjoy  Nahant,  you  must  have  an 
ocean  in  your  soul.  Nature  plays  at  dominos 
with  you  ; you  must  match  her  piece,  or  she  will 
never  give  it  up  to  you. 

The  schoolmistress  said,  in  a rather  mis- 
chievous way,  that  she  was  afraid  some  minds  or 
souls  would  be  a little  crowded,  if  they  took  in  the 
Rocky  Mountains  or  the  Atlantic. 

Have  you  ever  read  the  little  book  called  “ The 
Stars  and  the  Earth  ? ” — said  I.  — Have  you  seen 
the  Declaration  of  Independence  photographed  in 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  325 

a surface  that  a fly’s  foot  would  cover  ? The  forms 
or  conditions  of  Time  and  Space,  as  Kant  will  tell 
you,  are  nothing  in  themselves,  — only  our  way 
Df  looking  at  things.  You  are  right,  I think, 
however,  in  recognizing  the  idea  of  Space  as  be- 
ing quite  as  applicable  to  minds  as  to  the  outer 
world.  Every  man  of  reflection  is  vaguely  con- 
scious of  an  imperfectly-defined  circle  which  is 
drawn  about  his  intellect.  He  has  a perfectly 
clear  sense  that  the  fragments  of  his  intellectual 
circle  include  the  curves  of  many  other  minds  of 
which  he  is  cognizant.  He  often  recognizes  these 
as  manifestly  concentric  with  his  own,  but  of  less 
radius.  On  the  other  hand,  when  we  find  a por- 
tion of  an  arc  on  the  outside  of  our  own,  we  say 
it  intersects  ours,  but  are  very  slow  to  confess  or  to 
see  that  it  circumscribes  it.  Every  now  and  then  a 
man’s  mind  is  stretched  by  a new  idea  or  sensation, 
and  never  shrinks  back  to  its  former  dimensions. 
After  looking  at  the  Alps,  I felt  that  my  mind  had 
been  stretched  beyond  the  limits  of  its  elasticity, 
and  fitted  so  loosely  on  my  old  ideas  of  space  that 
I had  to  spread  these  to  fit  it. 

If  I thought  I should  ever  see  the  Alps  3 

— said  the  schoolmistress. 

Perhaps  you  will,  some  time  or  other,  — I said. 

It  is  not  very  likely,  — she  answered.  — I have 
had  one  or  two  opportunities,  but  I had  rather  be 
anything  than  governess  in  a rich  family. 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


326 

[Proud,  too,  you  little  soft- voiced  woman  ! Well, 
I can’t  say  I like  you  any  the  worse  for  it.  How 
long  will  school-keeping  take  to  kill  you  ? Is  it 
possible  the  poor  thing  works  with  her  needle, 
too  1 I don’t  like  those  marks  on  the  side  of  her 
forefinger. 

Tableau.  Chamouni.  Mont  Blanc  in  full  view. 
Figures  in  the  foreground ; two  of  them  standing 

apart ; one  of  them  a gentleman  of oh,  — ah, 

— yes  ! the  other  a lady  in  a white  cashmere, 
leaning  on  his  shoulder.  — The  ingenuous  reader 
will  understand  that  this  wras  an  internal,  private, 
personal,  subjective  diorama,  seen  for  one  instant 
on  the  background  of  my  own  consciousness,  and 
abolished  into  black  nonentity  by  the  first  question 
which  recalled  me  to  actual  life,  as  suddenly  as  if 
one  of  those  iron  shop-blinds  (which  I always  pass 
at  dusk  with  a shiver,  expecting  to  stumble  over 
some  poor  but  honest  shop-boy’s  head,  just  taken 
off  by  its  sudden  and  unexpected  descent,  and  left 
outside  upon  the  sidewalk)  had  come  down  in 
front  of  it  “ by  the  run.”] 

Should  you  like  to  hear  wrhat  moderate 

wishes  life  brings  one  to  at  last  ? I used  to  be 
very  ambitious,  — wasteful,  extravagant,  and  lux- 
urious in  all  my  fancies.  Read  too  much  in  the 
“ Arabian  Nights.”  Must  have  the  lamp,  — 
could  n’t  do  without  the  ring.  Exercise  every 
morning  on  the  brazen  horse.  Plump  down  into 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 


327 

castles  as  full  of  little  milk-white  princesses  as  a 
nest  is  of  young  sparrows.  Ail  love  me  dearly  at 
once.  — Charming  idea  of  life,  but  too  high-colored 
for  the  reality.  I have  outgrown  all  this ; my 
tastes  have  become  exceedingly  primitive,  — ah 
most,  perhaps,  ascetic.  We  carry  happiness  into 
our  condition,  but  must  not  hope  to  find  it  there. 
I think  you  will  be  willing  to  hear  some  lines 
which  embody  the  subdued  and  limited  desires  of 
my  maturity. 


CONTENTMENT. 

“ Man  wants  but  little  here  below." 

Little  I ask  ; my  wants  are  few  5 
I only  wish  a hut  of  stone, 

(A  very  plain  brown  stone  will  do,) 

That  I may  call  my  own  5 — 

And  close  at  hand  is  such  a one, 

In  yonder  street  that  fronts  the  sun. 

Plain  food  is  quite  enough  for  me  ; 

Three  courses  are  as  good  as  ten  •,  — 

If  Nature  can  subsist  on  three, 

Thank  Heaven  for  three.  Amen  \ 

I always  thought  cold  victual  nice  5 — 

M y choice  would  be  vanilla-ice. 

I care  not  much  for  gold  or  land  ; — 

Give  me  a mortgage  here  and  there,  — 
Some  good  bank-stock,  — some  note  of  hand, 
Or  trifling  railroad  share  *,  — 

I only  ask  that  Fortune  send 
A little  more  than  I shall  spend. 


*28 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


Honors  are  silly  toys,  I know, 

And  titles  are  but  empty  names  •,  — 

I would,  perhaps,  be  Plenipo,  — 

But  only  near  St.  James  ; 

I ’m  very  sure  I should  not  care 
To  fill  our  Gubernator’s  chair. 

Jewels  are  bawbles  ; ’t  is  a sin 
To  care  for  such  unfruitful  things  ; — 

One  good-sized  diamond  in  a pin,  — 

Some,  not  so  large,  in  rings,  — 

A ruby,  and  a pearl,  or  so, 

Will  do  for  me  *,  — I laugh  at  show. 

My  dame  should  dress  in  cheap  attire  $ 
(Good,  heavy  silks  are  never  dear  *,)  — 

X own  perhaps  I might  desire 

Some  shawls  of  true  Cashmere,  — 
Some  marrowy  crapes  of  China  silk, 

Like  wrinkled  skins  on  scalded  milk. 

I would  not  have  the  horse  I drive 
So  fast  that  folks  must  stop  and  stare  } 
An  easy  gait — two,  forty-five  — 

Suits  me  ; I do  not  care  ; — 
Perhaps,  for  just  a single  spurt , 

Some  seconds  less  would  do  no  hurt. 

Of  pictures  I should  like  to  own 
Titians  and  Raphaels  three  or  four, 

I love  so  much  their  style  and  tone, — 

One  Turner,  and  no  more,  — 

(A  landscape, — foreground  golden  dirt, — 
The  sunshine  painted  with  a squirt.) 

Of  books  but  few,  — some  fifty  score 
For  daily  use,  and  bound  for  wear  ; 

The  rest  upon  an  upper  floor  ; — 

Some  little  luxury  there 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  329 

Of  red  morocco’s  gilded  gleam, 

And  vellum  rich  as  country  cream. 

Busts,  cameos,  gems,  — such  things  as  these, 
Which  others  often  show  for  pride, 

I value  for  their  power  to  please, 

And  selfish  churls  deride  ; — 

One  Stradivarius,  I confess, 

Two  Meerschaums,  I would  fain  possess. 

Wealth’s  wasteful  tricks  I will  not  learn, 

Nor  ape  the  glittering  upstart  fool ; — 

Shall  not  carved  tables  serve  my  turn, 

But  all  must  be  of  buhl  ? 

Give  grasping  pomp  its  double  share,  — 

I ask  but  one  recumbent  chair. 

Thus  humble  let  me  live  and  die, 

Nor  long  for  Midas’  golden  touch, 

If  Heaven  more  generous  gifts  deny, 

I shall  not  miss  them  much*  — 

Too  grateful  for  the  blessing  lent 
Of  simple  tastes  and  mind  content ! 

MY  LAST  WALK  WITH  THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

(^1  Parenthesis.) 

I can’t  say  just  how  many  walks  she  and  I had 
taken  together  before  this  one.  I found  the  effect 
of  going  out  every  morning  was  decidedly  favor- 
able on  her  health.  Two  pleasing  dimples,  the 
places  for  which  were  just  marked  when  she  came, 
played,  shadowy,  in  her  freshening  cheeks  when 
she  smiled  and  nodded  good-morning  to  me  from 
the  school-house  steps. 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


330 

I am  afraid  I did  the  greater  part  of  the  talking. 
At  ary  rate,  if  I should  try  to  report  all  that  I 
said  during  the  first  half-dozen  walks  we  took 
together,  I fear  that  I might  receive  a gentle  hint 
from  my  friends  the  publishers,  that  a separate 
volume,  at  my  own  risk  and  expense,  would  be 
the  proper  method  of  bringing  them  before  the 
public. 

1 would  have  a woman  as  true  as  Death. 

At  the  first  real  lie  which  works  from  the  heart 
outward,  she  should  be  tenderly  chloroformed  into 
a better  world,  where  she  can  have  an  angel  for  u 
governess,  and  feed  on  strange  fruits  which  wP' 
make  her  all  over  again,  even  to  her  bones  and 
marrow.  — Whether  gifted  with  the  accident  of 
beauty  or  not,  she  should  have  been  moulded  in 
the  rose-red  clay  of  Love,  before  the  breath  of  life 
made  a moving  mortal  of  her.  Love-capacity  is  a 
congenital  endowment ; and  I think,  after  a while, 
one  gets  to  know  the  warm-hued  natures  it  be- 
longs to  from  the  pretty  pipe-clay  counterfeits  of 
them.  — Proud  she  may  be,  in  the  sense  of  respect- 
ing herself ; but  pride  in  the  sense  of  contemning 
others  less  gifted  than  herself  deserves  the  two 
lowest  circles  of  a vulgar  woman’s  Inferno,  where 
the  punishments  are  Small -pox  and  Bankruptcy. 
She  who  nips  off  the  end  of  a brittle  courtesy,  as 
one  breaks  the  tip  of  an  icicle,  to  bestow  upon 
those  whom  she  ought  cordially  and  kindly  to 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 


331 

recognize,  proclaims  the  fact  that  she  comes  not 
merely  of  low  blood,  but  of  bad  blood.  Con- 
sciousness of  unquestioned  position  makes  people 
gracious  in  proper  measure  to  all  ; but  if  a woman 
wts  on  airs  with  her  real  equals,  she  has  some- 
thing about  herself  or  her  family  she  is  ashamed 
of,  or  ought  to  be.  Middle,  and  more  than  mid- 
dle-aged people,  who  know  family  histories,  gen- 
erally see  through  it.  An  official  of  standing  was 
rude  to  me  once.  0,  that  is  the  maternal  grand- 
father, — said  a wise  old  friend  to  me,  — he  was  a 
boor.  — ■ Better  too  few  words,  from  the  woman 
we  love,  than  too  many  : while  she  is  silent,  Na- 
ture is  working  for  her ; while  she  talks,  she  is 
working  for  herself.  — Love  is  sparingly  soluble  in 
the  words  of  men  ; therefore  they  speak  much  of 
it ; but  one  syllable  of  woman’s  speech  can  dis- 
solve more  of  it  than  a man’s  heart  can  hold. 

— — Whether  I said  any  or  all  of  these  things 
to  the  schoolmistress,  or  not,  — whether  I stole 
them  out  of  Lord  Bacon,  — whether  I cribbed 
them  from  Balzac,  — whether  I dipped  them  from 
the  ocean  of  Tupperian  wisdom,  — or  whether  I 
have  just  found  them  in  my  head,  laid  there  by 
that  solemn  fowl,  Experience,  (who,  according  to 
my  observation,  cackles  oftener  than  she  drops 
real  live  eggs,)  I cannot  say.  Wise  men  have 
said  more  foolish  things,  — and  foolish  men,  I 
don’t  doubt,  have  said  as  wise' things.  Anyhow, 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


331 

the  schoolmistress  and  I had  pleasant  walks  and 
long  talks,  all  of  which  I do  not  feel  bound  to 
report. 

You  are  a stranger  to  me,  ma’am.  — 1 

don’t  doubt  you  wrould  like  to  know  all  I said 
to  the  schoolmistress.  — I sha’n’t  do  it; — I had 
rather  get  the  publishers  to  return  the  money  you 
have  invested  in  these  pages.  Besides,  I have  for- 
gotten a good  deal  of  it.  I shall  tell  only  what  I 
like  of  what  I remember. 

My  idea  was,  in  the  first  place,  to  search 

out  the  picturesque  spots  which  the  city  affords  a 
sight  of,  to  those  who  have  eyes.  I know  a good 
many,  and  it  was  a pleasure  to  look  at  them  in 
company  with  my  young  friend.  There  were  the 
shrubs  and  flowers  in  the  Franklin  Place  front- 
yards  or  borders  ; Commerce  is  just  putting  his 
granite  foot  upon  them.  Then  there  are  certain 
small  seraglio-gardens,  into  which  one  can  get  a 
peep  through  the  crevices  of  high  fences,  — one  in 
Myrtle  Street,  or  at  the  back  of  it,  — here  and 
there  one  at  the  North  and  South  Ends.  Then  the 
great  elms  in  Essex  Street.  Then  the  stately 
horse-chestnuts  in  that  vacant  lot  in  Chambers 
Street,  which  hold  their  outspread  hands  over 
your  head,  (as  I said  in  my  poem  the  other  day,) 
and  look  as  if  they  were  whispering,  “ May  grace, 
mercy,  and  peace  be  with  you  ! ” — and  the  rest  of 
that  benediction.  Nay,  there  are  certain  patches 


OF  THE  BREAK  FAB  T-  TABLE.  333 

»f  ground,  which,  having  lain  neglected  for  a time, 
Nature,  who  always  has  her  pockets  full  of  seeds, 
and  holes  in  all  her  pockets,  has  covered  with  hun- 
gry plebeian  growths,  which  fight  for  life  with  each 
other,  until  some  of  them  get  broad-leaved  and 
succulent,  and  you  have  a coarse  vegetable  tapes- 
try which  Raphael  would  not  have  disdained  to 
spread  over  the  foreground  of  his  masterpiece* 
The  Professor  pretends  that  he  found  such  a one 
in  Charles  Street,  which,  in  its  dare-devil  impu- 
dence of  rough-and-tumble  vegetation,  beat  the 
pretty-behaved  flower-beds  of  the  Public  Garden 
as  ignominiously  as  a group  of  young  tatterde- 
malions playing  pitch-and-toss  beats  a row  of  Sun- 
day-school boys  with  their  teacher  at  their  head. 

But  then  the  Professor  has  one  of  his  burrows 
in  that  region,  and  puts  everything  in  high  colors 
relating  to  it.  That  is  his  way  about  everything. 

1 hold  any  man  cheap,  — he  said, — of  whom 

nothing  stronger  can  be  uttered  than  that  all  his 

geese  are  swans. How  is  that,  Professor?  — 

said  I ; — I should  have  set  you  down  for  one  of 

that  sort. Sir,  — said  he,  — I am  proud  to  say, 

that  Nature  has  so  far  enriched  me,  that  I cannot 
own  so  much  as  a duck  without  seeing  in  it  as  pret- 
ty a swan  as  ever  swam  the  basin  in  the  garden 
of  the  Luxembourg.  And  the  Professor  showed 
the  whites  of  his  eyes  devoutly,  like  one  returning 
lhanks  after  a dinner  of  many  courses. 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


334 

I don’t  know  anything  sweeter  than  this  leaking 
in  of  Nature  through  all  the  cracks  in  the  walls 
and  floors  of  cities.  You  heap  up  a million  tons 
of  hewn  rocks  on  a square  mile  or  two  of  earth 
which  was  green  once.  The  trees  look  down  from 
the  hillsides  and  ask  each  other,  as  they  stand  on 
tiptoe,  — “ What  are  these  people  about  ? ” And 
the  small  herbs  at  their  feet  look  up  and  whisper 
back,  — “We  will  go  and  see.”  So  the  small  herbs 
pack  themselves  up  in  the  least  possible  bundles, 
and  wait  until  the  wind  steals  to  them  at  night 
and  whispers,  — “Come  with  me.”  Then  they 
go  softly  with  it  into  the  great  city,  — one  to  a 
cleft  in  the  pavement,  one  to  a spout  on  the  roof, 
one  to  a seam  in  the  marbles  over  a rich  gentle- 
man’s bones,  and  one  to  the  grave  without  a stone 
where  nothing  but  a man  is  buried,  — and  there 
they  grow,  looking  down  on  the  generations  of 
men  from  mouldy  roofs,  looking  up  from  between 
the  less-trodden  pavements,  looking  out  through 
iron  cemetery-railings.  Listen  to  them,  when 
there  is  only  a light  breath  stirring,  and  you  will 
hear  them  saying  to  each  other,  — “ Wait  awhile  ! ’* 
The  words  run  along  the  telegraph  of  those  nar- 
row green  lines  that  border  the  roads  leading  from 
the  city,  until  they  reach  the  slope  of  the  hills,  and 
the  trees  repeat  in  low  murmurs  to  each  other,  — 
“ Wait  awhile  ! ” By  and  by  the  flow  of  life  in 
the  streets  ebbs,  and  the  old  leafy  inhabitants  — 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  335 

the  smaller  tribes  always  in  front  — saunter  in, 
one  by  one,  very  careless  seemingly,  but  very  te- 
nacious, until  they  swarm  so  that  the  great  stones 
gape  from  each  other  with  the  crowding  of  their 
roots,  and  the  feldspar  begins  to  be  picked  out  of 
the  granite  to'  find  them  food.  At  last  the  trees 
take  up  their  solemn  line  of  march,  and  never  rest 
until  they  have  encamped  in  the  market-place. 
Wait  long  enough  and  you  will  find  an  old  doting 
oak  hugging  a huge  worn  block  in  its  yellow  un- 
derground arms ; that  was  the  corner-stone  of  the 
State-House.  0,  so  patient  she  is,  this  imperturb- 
able Nature ! 

Let  us  cry  ! 

But  all  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  walks 
and  talks  with  the  schoolmistress.  I did  not  say 
that  I would  not  tell  you  something  about  them. 
Let  me  alone,  and  I shall  talk  to  you  more  than  I 
ought  to,  probably.  We  never  tell  our  secrets  to 
people  that  pump  for  them. 

Books  we  talked  about,  and  education.  It  was 
her  duty  to  know  something  of  these,  and  of  course 
she  did.  Perhaps  I was  somewhat  more  learned 
than  she,  but  I found  that  the  difference  between 
her  reading  and  mine  was  like  that  of  a man’s 
and  a woman’s  dusting  a library.  The  man  flaps 
about  with  a bunch  of  feathers ; the  woman  goes 
to  work  softly  with  a cloth.  She  does  not  raise 
naif  the  dust,  nor  fill  her  own  mouth  and  eyes 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


33<J 

with  it,  — but  she  goes  into  all  the  corners,  and 
attends  to  the  leaves  as  much  as  the  covers.  — 
Books  are  the  negative  pictures  of  thought,  and  the 
more  sensitive  the  mind  that  receives  their  images, 
the  more  nicely  the  finest  lines  are  reproduced.  A 
woman,  (of  the  right  kind,)  reading  after  a man, 
follows  him  as  Kuth  followed  the  reapers  of  Boaz, 
and  her  gleanings  are  often  the  finest  of  the  wheat. 

But  it  was  in  talking  of  Life  that  we  came  most 
nearly  together.  I thought  I knew  something 
about  that,  — that  I could  speak  or  write  about 
it  somewhat  to  the  purpose. 

To  take  up  this  fluid  earthly  being  of  ours  as  a 
sponge  sucks  up  water,  — to  be  steeped  and  soaked 
in  its  realities  as  a hide  fills  its  pores  lying  seven 
years  in  a tan-pit,  — to  have  winnowed  every  wave 
of  it  as  a mill-wheel  works  up  the  stream  that 
runs  through  the  flume  upon  its  float-boards,  — to 
have  curled  up  in  the  keenest  spasms  and  flattened 
out  in  the  laxest  languors  of  this  breathing-sick- 
ness, which  keeps  certain  parcels  of  matter  uneasy 
for  three  or  four  score  years,  — to  have  fought  all 
the  devils  and  clasped  all  the  angels  of  its  de- 
lirium, — and  then,  just  at  the  point  when  the 
white-hot  passions  have  cooled  down  to  cherry- 
red,  plunge  our  experience  into  the  ice-cold  stream 
of  some  human  language  or  other,  one  might 
think  would  end  in  a rhapsody  with  something 
of  spring  and  temper  in  it.  All  this  I thought 
my  power  and  province 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


337 

The  schoolmistress  had  tried  life,  too.  Once  in 
a while  one  meets  with  a single  soul  greater  than 
all  the  living  pageant  which  passes  before  it.  As 
the  pale  astronomer  sits  in  his  study  with  sunken 
eyes  and  thin  fingers,  and  weighs  Uranus  or  Nen~ 
tune  as  in  a balance,  so  there  are  meek,  slight  wo- 
men who  have  weighed  all  which  this  planetary 
life  can  offer,  and  hold  it  like  a bawble  in  the  palm 
of  their  slender  hands.  This  was  one  of  them. 
Fortune  had  left  her,  sorrow  had  bap  ier; 
the  routine  of  labor  and  the  loneliness  lost 

friendless  city  life  were  before  her.  Yet,  as  I 
looked  upon  her  tranquil  face,  gradually  regain- 
ing a cheerfulness  which  was  often  sprightly,  as 
she  became  interested  in  the  various  matters  we 
talked  about  and  places  we  visited,  I saw  that  eye 
and  lip  and  every  shifting  lineament  were  made 
for  love,  — unconscious  of  their  sweet  office  as 
yet,  and  meeting  the  cold  aspect  of  Duty  with  the 
natural  graces  which  were  meant  for  the  reward 
of  nothing  less  than  the  Great  Passion. 

1 never  addressed  one  word  of  love  to  the 

schoolmistress  in  the  course  of  these  pleasant 
walks.  It  seemed  to  me  that  we  talked  of  every- 
thing but  love  on  that  particular  morning.  There 
w'as,  perhaps,  a little  more  timidity  and  hesitancy 
on  my  part  than  I have  commonly  shown  among 
our  people  at  the  boarding-house.  In  fact,  I con- 
sidered myself  the  master  at  the  breakfast-table; 


22 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


338 

but,  somehow,  I could  not  command  myself  just 
then  so  well  as  usual.  The  truth  is,  I had  secured 
a passage  to  Liverpool  in  the  steamer  which  was 
to  leave  at  noon,  — with  the  condition,  however, 
of  being  released  in  case  circumstances  occurred 
to  detain  me.  The  schoolmistress  knew  nothing 
about  all  this,  of  course,  as  yet. 

It  was  on  the  Common  that  we  were  walking. 
The  mall , or  boulevard  of  our  Common,  you  know, 
has  branches  leading  from  it  in  different 

direHHD!  One  of  these  runs  down  from  oppo- 
site J'i^^treet  southward  across  the  whole  length 
of  the  Common  to  Boylston  Street.  We  called  it 
the  long  path,  and  were  fond  of  it. 

I felt  very  weak  indeed  (though  of  a tolerably 
robust  habit)  as  we  came  opposite  the  head  of  this 
path  on  that  morning.  I think  I tried  to  speak 
twice  without  making  myself  distinctly  audible. 

At  last  I got  out  the  question, Will  you  take 

the  long  path  with  me  ? Certainly,  — said  the 

schoolmistress,  — with  much  pleasure. Think, 

— I said,  — before  you  answer  ; if  you  take  the 
long  path  with  me  now,  I shall  interpret  it  that 

we  are  to  part  no  more ! The  schoolmistress 

stepped  back  with  a sudden  movement,  as  if  an 
arrow  had  struck  her. 

One  of  the  long  granite  blocks  used  as  seats  wras 
hard  by,  — the  one  you  may  still  see  close  by  the 
Gingko-tree. Pray,  sit  down,  — I said. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  339 

No,  no,  she  answered,  softly,  — I will  walk  the 
long  path  with  you  ! 

The  old  gentleman  who  sits  opposite  met 

us  walking,  arm  in  arm,  about  the  middle  of  the 
long  path,  and  said,  very  charmingly,  — “ Good 
morning,  my  dears  l ” 


H° 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


XII. 

DID  not  think  it  probable  that  I should 
have  a great  many  more  talks  with  our 
company,  and  therefore  I was  anxious 
to  get  as  much  as  I could  into  every 
conversation.  That  is  the  reason  why  you  will 
find  some  odd,  miscellaneous  facts  here,  which  I 
wished  to  tell  at  least  once,  as.  I should  not  have 
a chance  to  tell  them  habitually,  at  our  breakfast- 
table. — We  "re  very  free  and  easy,  you  know;  we 
don't  read  what  we  don't  like.  Our  parish  is  so 
large,  one  can’t  pretend  to  preach  to  all  the  pews 
at  once.  One  can’t  be  all  the  time  trying  to  do 
the  best  of  one's  best ; if  a company  works  a steam 
fire-engine,  the  firemen  need  n't  be  straining  them- 
selves all  day  to  squirt  over  the  top  of  the  flag- 
staff. Let  them  wash  some  of  those  lower-story 
windows  a little.  Besides,  there  is  no  use  in  our 
quarrelling  now,  as  you  will  find  out  when  you 
get  through  this  paper.] 

Travel,  according  to  my  experience,  does 

not  exactly  correspond  to  the  idea  one  gets  of  it 
out  of  most  books  of  travels.  I am  thinking  of 
travel  as  it  was  when  I made  the  Grand  Tour; 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  341 

especially  in  Italy.  Memory  is  a net ; one  finds  it 
full  of  fish  when  he  takes  it  from  the  brook ; hut 
a dozen  miles  of  water  have  run  through  it  without 
sticking.  I can  prove  some  facts  about  travelling 
by  a story  or  two.  There  are  certain  principles 
to  be  assumed,  — such  as  these : — He  who  is  car- 
ried by  horses  must  deal  with  rogues.  — To-day’s 
dinner  subtends  a larger  visual  angle  than  yester- 
day’s revolution.  A mote  in  my  eye  is  bigger  to 
me  than  the  biggest  of  Dr.  Gould’s  private  plan- 
ets. — Every  traveller  is  a self-taught  entomologist. 
— Old  jokes  are  dynamometers  of  mental  tension ; 
an  old  joke  tells  better  among  friends  travelling 
than  at  home,  — which  shows  that  their  minds 
are  in  a state  of  diminished  rather  than  increased 
vitality.  There  was  a story  about  “ strahps  to 
your  pahnts,”  which  was  vastly  funny  to  us  fel- 
lows, — on  the  road  from  Milan  to  Venice.  — Coe - 
lum  non  animum , — travellers  change  their  guineas, 
but  not  their  characters.  The  bore  is  the  same, 
eating  dates  under  the  cedars  of  Lebanon,  as  over 
a plate  of  baked  beans  in  Beacon  Street.  — Parties 
of  travellers  have  a morbid  instinct  for  “estab- 
lishing raws  ’ ’ upon  each  other.  — A man  shall  sit 
down  with  his  friend  at  the  foot  of  the  Great  Pyr- 
amid and  they  will  take  up  the  question  they  had 
been  talking  about  under  “the  great  elm,”  and 
forget  all  about  Egypt.  When  I was  crossing  the 
Po,  we  were  all  fighting  about  the  propriety  of  one 


TIIE  AUTOCRAT 


34* 

fellow's  telling  another  that  his  argument  was  ab- 
surd; one  maintaining  it  to  be  a perfectly  admis- 
sible logical  term,  as  proved  by  the  phrase  “ re- 
ductio  ad  absurdum  ” ; the  rest  badgering  him  as 
a conversational  bully.  Mighty  little  we  troubled 
ourselves  for  Padus,  the  Po,  “ a river  broader  and 
more  rapid  than  the  Rhone,"  and  the  times  when 
Hannibal  led  his  grim  Africans  to  its  banks,  and 
his  elephants  thrust  their  trunks  into  the  yellow 
waters  over  which  that  pendulum  ferry-boat  was 
swinging  back  and  forward  every  ten  minutes  ! 

Here  are  some  of  those  reminiscences,  with 

morals  prefixed,  or  annexed,  or  implied. 

Lively  emotions  very  commonly  do  not  strike 
us  full  in  front,  but  obliquely  from  the  side ; a 
scene  or  incident  in  undress  often  affects  us  more 
than  one  in  full  costume. 

“ Is  this  the  mighty  ocean  ? — is  this  all  ? ” 

says  the  Princess  in  Gebir.  The  rush  that  should 
have  flooded  my  soul  in  the  Coliseum  did  not 
come.  But  walking  one  day  in  the  fields  about 
the  city,  I stumbled  over  a fragment  of  broken 
masonry,  and  lo  ! the  World’s  Mistress  in  her 
stone  girdle — alta  moenia  Romm — rose  before  me 
and  whitened  my  cheek  with  her  pale  shadow  as 
never  before  or  since. 

1 used  very  often,  when  coming  home  from  my 
morning’s  work  at  one  of  the  public  institutions 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  343 

of  Paris,  to  stop  in  at  the  dear  old  church  of  St. 
Etienne  du  Mont.  The  tomb  of  St.  Genevieve, 
surrounded  by  burning  candles  and  votive  tablets, 
was  there ; the  mural  tablet  of  Jacobus  Benignus 
Winslow  was  there ; there  was  a noble  organ  with 
carved  figures ; the  pulpit  was  borne  on  the  oaken 
shoulders  of  a stooping  Samson ; and  there  was  a 
marvellous  staircase  like  a coil  of  lace.  Thes^ 
things  I mention  from  memory,  but  not  all  of 
them  together  impressed  me  so  much  as  an  in- 
scription on  a small  slab  of  marble  fixed  in  one  of 
the  walls.  It  told  how  this  church  of  St.  Stephen 
was  repaired  and  beautified  in  the  year  16**,  and 
how,  during  the  celebration  of  its  reopening,  two 
girls  of  the  parish  (filles  de  la  paroisse)  fell  from 
the  gallery,  carrying  a part  of  the  balustrade  with 
them,  to  the  pavement,  but  by  a miracle  escaped 
uninjured.  Two  young  girls,  nameless,  but  real 
presences  to  my  imagination,  as  much  as  when 
they  came  fluttering  down  on  the  tiles  with  a 
cry  that  outscreamed  the  sharpest  treble  in  the 
#Te  Deum.  (Look  at  Carlyle’s  article  on  Boswell, 
and  see  how  he  speaks  of  the  poor  young  woman 
Johnson  talked  with  in  the  streets,  one  evening  ) 
All  the  crowd  gone  but  these  two  “ filles  de  la 
paroisse,”  — gone  as  utterly  as  the  dresses  they 
wore,  as  the  shoes  that  were  on  their  feet,  as 
the  bread  and  meat  that  were  in  the  market  on 
that  day. 


344 


TA£  AUTOCRAT 


Not  the  great  historical  events,  but  the  personal 
incidents  that  call  up  single  sharp  pictures  of 
some  human  being  in  its  pang  or  struggle,  seach 
us  most  nearly.  I remember  the  platform  at 
Berne,  over  the  parapet  of  which  Theobald  Wein- 
zapfli’s  restive  horse  sprung  with  him  and  landed 
him  more  than  a hundred  feet  beneath  in  the 
lower  town,  not  dead,  but  sorely  broken,  and  no 
longer  a wild  youth,  but  God’s  servant  from  that 
day  forward.  I have  forgotten  the  famous  bears, 
and  all  else.  — I remember  the  Percy  lion  on  the 
bridge  over  the  little  river  at  Alnwick,  — the 
leaden  lion  with  his  tail  stretched  out  straight 
like  a pump-handle,  — and  why  ? Because  of  the 
story  of  the  village  boy  who  must  fain  bestride 
the  leaden  tail,  standing  out  over  the  water, — 
which  breaking,  he  dropped  into  the  stream  far 
below,  and  was  taken  out  an  idiot  for  the  rest  of 
his  life. 

Arrow-heads  must  be  brought  to  a sharp  point, 
and  the  guillotine-axe  must  have  a slanting  edge. 
Something  intensely  human,  narrow,  and  definite 
pierces  to  the  seat  of  our  sensibilities  more  readily 
than  huge  occurrences  and  catastrophes.  A nail 
will  pick  a lock  that  defies  hatchet  and  hammer. 
‘ The  Royal  George  ” went  down  with  all  her 
crew,  and  Cowper  wrote  an  exquisitely  simple 
poem  about  it ; but  the  leaf  which  holds  it  is 
smooth,  while  that  which  bears  the  lines  on  his 
mother’s  portrait  is  blistered  with  tears. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  345 

My  telling  these  recollections  sets  me  thinking 
of  others  of  the  same  kind  which  strike  the  imag- 
ination, especially  when  one  is  still  young.  You 
remember  the  monument  in  Devizes  market  to  the 
woman  struck  dead  with  a lie  in  her  mouth.  I 
never  saw  that,  but  it  is  in  the  books.  Here  is 
one  I never  heard  mentioned ; — if  any  of  the 
“ Note  and  Query  ” tribe  can  tell  the  story,  I 
hope  they  will.  Where  is  this  monument  ? I 
was  riding  on  an  English  stage-coach  when  we 
passed  a handsome  marble  column  (as  I remem- 
ber it)  of  considerable  size  and  pretensions.  — 
What  is  that  ? — I said.  — That,  — answered  the 
coachman,  — is  the  hangman's  pillar A Then  he 
told  me  how  a man  went  out  one  night,  many 
years  ago,  to  steal  sheep.  He  caught  one,  tied  its 
legs  together,  passed  the  rope  over  his  head,  and 
started  for  home.  In  climbing  a fence,  the  rope 
slipped,  caught  him  by  the  neck,  and  strangled 
him.  Next  morning  he  was  found  hanging  dead 
on  one  side  of  the  fence  and  the  sheep  on  the 
other  ; in  memory  whereof  the  lord  of  the  manor 
caused  this  monument  to  be  erected  as  a warning 
to  all  who  love  mutton  better  than  virtue.  I will 
send  a copy  of  this  record  to  him  or  her  who 
shall  first  set  me  right  about  this  column  and 
its  locality.2 

And  telling  over  these  old  stories  reminds  me 
that  I have  something  which  may  interest  archi* 
1 NoteW. 


* Note  X. 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


346 

tects  and  perhaps  some  other  persons.  I one-* 
ascended  the  spire  of  Strasburg  Cathedral,  which 
is  the  highest,  I think,  in  Europe.  It  is  a shaft 
of  stone  filigree-work,  frightfully  open,  so  that  the 
guide  puts  his  arms  behind  you  to  keep  you  trom 
falling.  To  climb  it  is  a noonday  nightmare, 
and  to  think  of  having  climbed  it  crisps  all  the 
fifty-six  joints  of  one's  twenty  digits.  While  I 
was  on  it,  “ pinnacled  dim  in  the  intense  inane,” 
a strong  wind  was  blowing,  and  I felt  sure  that 
the  spire  was  rocking.  It  swayed  back  and  for- 
ward like  a stalk  of  rye  or  a cat-o'-nine-tails  (bul- 
rush) with  a bobolink  on  it.  I mentioned  it  to 
the  guide,  and  he  said  that  the  spire  did  really 
swing  back  and  forward,  — I think  he  said  some 
feet. 

Keep  any  line  of  knowledge  ten  years  and  some 
other  line  will  intersect  it.  Long  afterwards  I was 
hunting  out  a paper  of  Dumeril's  in  an  old  jour- 
nal, — the  “ Magazin  Encyclopedique  ” for  Can 
troisieme , (1795,)  when  I stumbled  upon  a brief 
article  on  the  vibrations  of  the  spire  of  Strasburg 
Cathedral.  A man  can  shake  it  so  that  the  move- 
ment shall  be  shown  in  a vessel  of  water  nearly 
seventy  feet  below  the  summit,  and  higher  up  the 
vibration  is  like  that  of  an  earthquake.  I have 
seen  one  of  those  wretched  wooden  spires  with 
which  we  very  shabbily  finish  some  of  our  stone 
churches  (thinking  that  the  lidless  blue  eye  of 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  347 

heaven  cannot  tell  the  counterfeit  we  try  to  pass 
on  it)  swinging  like  a reed  in  a wind,  but  one 
would  hardly  think  of  such  a thing’s  happening  in 
a stone  spire.  Does  the  Bunker-Hill  Monument 
bend  in  the  blast  like  a blade  of  grass  1 I sup- 
pose  so. 

You  see,  of  course,  that  I am  talking  in  a cheap 
way  ; _ perhaps  we  will  have  some  philosophy  by 
and  by  ; — let  me  work  out  this  thin  mechanical 
vein.  _ I have  something  more  to  say  about  trees. 
I have  brought  down  this  slice  of  hemlock  to  show 
you.  Tree  blew  down  in  my  woods  (that  were) 
in  1852.  Twelve  feet  and  a half  round,  fair  girth  ; 
— nine  feet,  where  I got  my  section,  higher  up. 
This  is  a wedge,  going  to  the  centre,  of  the  gen- 
eral shape  of  a slice  of  apple-pie  in  a large  and 
not  opulent  family.  Length,  about  eighteen 
inches.  I have  studied  the  growth  of  this  tree 
by  its  rings,  and  it  is  curious.  Three  hundred 
and  forty-two  rings.  Started,  therefore,  about 
1510.  The  thickness  of  the  rings  tells  the  rate  at 
which  it  grew.  For  five  or  six  years  the  rate  was 
slow,  — then  rapid  for  twenty  years.  A little 
before  the  year  1550  it  began  to  grow  very  slowly, 
and  so  continued  for  about  seventy  years.  In 
1620  it  took  a new  start  and  grew  fast  until  1714, 
then  for  the  most  part  slowly  until  1786,  when  it 
started  again  and  grew  pretty  well  and  uniformly 
until  within  the  last  dozen  years,  when  it  seems  to 
have  got  on  sluggishly. 


348  THE  AUTOCRAT 

Look  here.  Here  are  some  human  lives  laid 
down  against  the  periods  of  its  growth,  to  which 
they  corresponded.  This  is  Shakespeare’s.  The 
tree  was  seven  inches  in  diameter  when  he  was 
born  ; ten  inches  when  he  died.  A little  less 
than  ten  inches  when  Milton  was  born ; seven- 
teen when  he  died.  Then  comes  a long  interval, 
and  this  thread  marks  out  Johnson’s  life,  during 
which  the  tree  increased  from  twenty-two  to  twen- 
ty-nine inches  in  diameter.  Here  is  the  span  of 
Napoleon’s  career ; — the  tree  does  n’t  seem  to 
have  minded  it. 

I never  saw  the  man  yet  who  was  not  startled 
at  looking  on  this  section.  I have  seen  many 
wooden  preachers,  — never  one  like  this.  How 
much  more  striking  would  be  the  calendar  count- 
ed on  the  rings  of  one  of  those  awful  trees  which 
were  standing  when  Christ  was  on  earth,  and 
where  that  brief  mortal  life  is  chronicled  with  the 
stolid  apathy  of  vegetable  being,  which  remembers 
all  human  history  as  a thing  of  yesterday  in  its 
own  dateless  existence ! 

I have  something  more  to  say  about  elms.  A 
relative  tells  me  there  is  one  of  great  glory  in  An- 
dover, near  Bradford.  I have  some  recollections 
of  the  former  place,  pleasant  and  other.  [I  won- 
der if  the  old  Seminary  clock  strikes  as  slowly  as 
it  used  to.  My  room-mate  thought,  when  he  first 
came,  it  was  the  bell  tolling  deaths*,  and  people’s 


OF  THE  BREAKFAS  T-  TABLE.  349 

ages,  as  they  do  in  the  country.  He  swore  — 
(ministers’  sons  get  so  familiar  with  good  words 
that  they  are  apt  to  handle  them  carelessly)  — 
that  the  children  were  dying  by  the  dozen,  of  all 
ages,  from  one  to  twelve,  and  ran  off  next  day  in 
recess,  when  it  began  to  strike  eleven,  but  was 
caught  before  the  clock  got  through  striking.] 
At  the  foot  of  “ the  hill,”  down  in  town,  is,  or 
was,  a tidy  old  elm,  which  was  said  to  have  been 
hooped  with  iron  to  protect  it  from  Indian  toma- 
hawks, (Credat  Hahnemannus,)  and  to  have  grown 
round  its  hoops  and  buried  them  in  its  wood.  Of 
course  this  is  not  the  tree  my  relative  means. 

Also,  I have  a very  pretty  letter  from  Norwich,  in 
Connecticut,  telling  me  of  two  noble  elms  which 
are  to  be  seen  in  that  town.  One  hundred  and 
twenty-seven  feet  from  bough-end  to  bough-end  ! 
What  do  you  say  to  that  ? And  gentle  ladies  be- 
neath it,  that  love  it  and  celebrate  its  praises  ! 
And  that  in  a town  of  such  supreme,  audacious, 
Alpine  loveliness  as  Norwich  ! — Only  the  dear 
people  there  must  learn  to  call  it  Norridge,  and 
not  be  misled  by  the  mere  accident  of  spelling. 

'Norwich. 

PorcAmouth. 

Cincinnati/*. 

What  a sad  picture  of  our  civilization  ! 

I did  not  speak  to  you  of  the  great  tree  on  what 
used  to  be  the  Colman  farm,  in  Deerfield,  simply 


350 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


because  I had  not  seen  it  for  many  years,  and  did 
not  like  to  trust  my  recollection.  But  I had  it  in 
memory,  and  even  noted  down,  as  one  of  the  finest 
trees  in  symmetry  and  beauty  I had  ever  seen.  I 
have  received  a document,  signed  by  two  citizens 
of  a neighboring  town,  certified  by  the  postmaster 
and  a selectman,  and  these  again  corroborated, 
reinforced,  and  sworn  to  by  a member  of  that 
extraordinary  college-class  to  which  it  is  the  good 
fortune  of  my  friend  the  Professor  to  belong,  who, 
though  he  has  formerly  been  a member  of  Con- 
gress, is,  I believe,  fully  worthy  of  confidence. 
The  tree  “ girts  ” eighteen  and  a half  feet,  and 
spreads  over  a hundred,  and  is  a real  beauty.  I 
hope  to  meet  my  friend  under  its  branches  yet ; 
if  we  don’t  have  “youth  at  the  prow,”  we  will 
have  “ pleasure  at  the  ’elm.” 

And  just  now,  again,  I have  got  a letter  about 
some  grand  willows  in  Maine,  and  another  about 
an  elm  in  Wayland,  but  too  late  for  anything  but 
thanks.1 

[And  this  leads  me  to  say,  that  I have  received 
a great  many  communications,  in  prose  and  verse, 
since  I began  printing  these  notes.  The  last 
came  this  very  morning,  in  the  shape  of  a neat 
and  brief  poem,  from  New  Orleans.  I could  not 
make  any  of  them  public,  though  sometimes  re- 
quested to  do  so.  Some  of  them  have  given  me 
great  pleasure,  and  encouraged  me  to  believe  } 

1 Note  Y. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  351 

had  friends  whose  faces  I had  never  seen.  If  you 
are  pleased  with  anything  a writer  says,  and 
doubt  whether  to  tell  him  of  it,  do  not  hesitate ; 
a pleasant  word  is  a cordial  to  one,  who  perhaps 
thinks  he  is  tiring  you,  and  so  becomes  tired 
himself.  I purr  very  loud  over  a good,  honest 
letter  that  says  pretty  things  to  me.J  * 

Sometimes  very  young  persons  send  com 

munications  which  they  want  forwarded  to  edi- 
tors ; and  these  young  persons  do  not  always 
seem  to  have  right  conceptions  of  these  same  edi- 
tors, and  of  the  public,  and  of  themselves.  Here 
is  a letter  I wrote  to  one  of  these  young  folks, 
but,  on  the  whole,  thought  it  best  not  to  send. 
It  is  not  fair  to  single  out  one  for  such  sharp 
advice,  where  there  are  hundreds  that  are  in 
need  of  it. 

Dear  Sir,  — You  seem  to  be  somewhat,  but 
not  a great  deal,  wiser  than  I was  at  your  age. 
I don't  wish  to  be  understood  as  saying  too  much, 
for  I think,  without  committing  myself  to  any 
opinion  on  my  present  state,  that  I was  not  a 
Solomon  at  that  stage  of  development. 

You  long  to  “ leap  at  a single  bound  into  celeb- 
rity." Nothing  is  so  commonplace  as  to  wish  to 
be  remarkable.  Fame  usually  comes  to  those 
vho  are  thinking  about  something  else,  — very 
•arely  to  those  who  say  to  themselves,  “ Go  to, 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


352 

now,  let  us  be  a celebrated  individual ! ” The 
struggle  for  fame,  as  such,  commonly  ends  in 
notoriety ; — that  ladder  is  easy  to  climb,  but  it 
leads  to  the  pillory  which  is  crowded  with  fools 
who  could  not  hold  their  tongues  and  rogues  who 
could  not  hide  their  tricks. 

If  you  have  the  consciousness  of  genius,  do 
something  to  show  it.  The  world  is  pretty  quick, 
now-a-days,  to  catch  the  flavor  of  true  originality ; 
if  you  write  anything  remarkable,  the  magazines 
and  newspapers  will  find  you  out,  as  the  school- 
boys find  out  where  the  ripe  apples  and  pears  are. 
Produce  anything  really  good,  and  an  intelligent 
editor  will  jump  at  it.  Don’t  flatter  yourself  that 
any  article  of  yours  is  rejected  because  you  are 
unknown  to  fame.  Nothing  pleases  an  editor 
more  than  to  get  anything  worth  having  from  a 
new  hand.  There  is  always  a dearth  of  really 
fine  articles  for  a first-rate  journal ; for,  of  a hun- 
dred pieces  received,  ninety  are  at  or  below  the 
sea-level ; some  have  water  enough,  but  no  head  ; 
some  head  enough,  but  no  water;  only  two  or 
three  are  from  full  reservoirs,  high  up  that  hill 
which  is  so  hard  to  climb. 

You  may  have  genius.  The  contrary  is  of 
course  probable,  but  it  is  not  demonstrated.  If 
you  have,  the  world  wants  you  more  than  you 
want  it.  It  has  not  only  a desire,  but  a passion, 
for  every  spark  of  genius  that  shows  itself  among 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE 


353 


us  ; there  is  not  a bull-calf  in  our  national  pasture 
that  can  bleat  a rhyme  but  it  is  ten  to  one,  among 
his  friends,  and  no  takers,  that  he  is  the  real, 
genuine,  no-mistake  Osiris. 

Qu’est  ce  qu’il  a fait  ? What  has  he  done  ? 
That  was  Napoleon’s  test.  What  have  you  done  ? 
Turn  up  the  faces  of  your  picture-cards,  my  boy  ! 
You  need  not  make  mouths  at  the  public  because 
it  has  not  accepted  you  at  your  own  fancy-valu- 
ation. Do  the  prettiest  thing  you  can,  and  wait 
your  time. 

For  the  verses  you  send  me,  I will  not  say  they 
are  hopeless,  and  I dare  not  affirm  that  they  show 
promise.  I am  not  an  editor,  but  I know  the 
standard  of  some  editors.  You  must  not  expect 
to  “leap  with  a single  bound”  into  the  society  of 
those  whom  it  is  not  flattery  to  call  your  betters. 
When  “ The  Pactolian  ” has  paid  you  for  a copy 
of  verses,  — (I  can  furnish  you  a list  of  alliter- 
ative signatures,  beginning  with  Annie  Aureole 
and  ending  with  Zoe  Zenith,)  — when  “ The 
Rag-bag”  has  stolen  your  piece,  after  carefully 
scratching  your  name  out, — when  “The  Nut- 
cracker” has  thought  you  worth  shelling,  and 
strung  the  kernel  of  your  cleverest  poem,  — then, 
and  not  till  then,  you  may  consider  the  presump- 
tion against  you,  from  the  fact  of  your  rhyming 
tendency,  as  called  in  question,  and  let  our  friends 
hear  from  you,  if  you  think  it  worth  while.  You 
*3 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


354 

may  possibly  think  me  too  candid,  and  even  ac- 
cuse me  of  incivility ; but  let  me  assure  you  that 
I am  not  half  so  plain-spoken  as  Nature,  nor  half 
so  rude  as  Time.  If  you  prefer  the  long  jolting 
of  public  opinion  to  the  gentle  touch  of  friendship, 
try  it  like  a man.  Only  remember  this,  — that, 
if  a bushel  of  potatoes  is  shaken  in  a market-cait 
without  springs  to  it,  the  small  potatoes  always 
get  to  the  bottom.  Believe  me,  etc.,  etc. 

I always  think  of  verse-writers,  when  I am  in 
this  vein  ; for  these  are  by  far  the  most  exacting, 
eager,  self-weighing,  restless,  querulous,  unreason- 
able literary  persons  one  is  like  to  meet  with.  Is 
a young  man  in  the  habit  of  writing  verses  ? 
Then  the  presumption  is  that  he  is  an  inferior 
person.  For,  look  you,  there  are  at  least  nine 
chances  in  ten  that  he  writes  poor  verses.  Now 
the  habit  of  chewing  on  rhymes  without  sense  and 
soul  to  match  them  is,  like  that  of  using  any  other 
narcotic,  at  once  a proof  of  feebleness  and  a debil- 
itating agent.  A young  man  can  get  rid  of  the 
presumption  against  him  afforded  by  his  writing 
verses  only  by  convincing  us  that  they  are  verses 
worth  writing. 

All  this  sounds  hard  and  rough,  but,  observe, 
it  is  not  addressed  to  any  individual,  and  of  course 
does  not  refer  to  any  reader  of  these  pages.  I 
would  always  treat  any  given  young  person  pass* 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  355 

ing  through  the  meteoric  showers  which  rain  down 
on  the  brief  period  of  adolescence  with  great  ten- 
derness. God  forgive  us  if  we  ever  speak  harshly 
to  young  creatures  on  the  strength  of  these  ugly 
truths,  and  so,  sooner  or  later,  smite  some  tender- 
souled  poet  or  poetess  on  the  lips  who  might  have 
sung  the  world  into  sweet  trances,  had  we  not 
silenced  the  matin-song  in  its  first  low  breathings  ! 
Just  as  my  heart  yearns  over  the  unloved,  just  so 
it  sorrows  for  the  ungifted  who  are  doomed  to  the 
pangs  of  an  undeceived  self-estimate.  I have  al- 
ways tried  to  be  gentle  with  the  most  hopeless 
cases.  My  experience,  however,  has  not  been  en- 
couraging. 

X.  Y.,  aet.  18,  a cheaply-got-up  youth, 

with  narrow  jaws,  and  broad,  bony,  cold,  red 
hands,  having  been  laughed  at  by  the  girls  in  his 
village,  and  “ got  the  mitten  ” (pronounced  mit- 
tm)  two  or  three  times,  falls  to  souling  and  con- 
trolling, and  youthing  and  truthing,  in  the  news- 
papers. Sends  me  some  strings  of  verses,  candi- 
dates for  the  Orthopedic  Infirmary,  all  of  them, 
in  which  I learn  for  the  millionth  time  one  of  the 
following  facts ; either  that  something  about  a 
chime  is  sublime,  or  that  something  about  time  is 
sublime,  or  that  something  about  a chime  is  con- 
cerned with  time,  or  that  something  about  a 
rhyme  is  sublime  or  concerned  with  time  or  with 
a chime.  Wishes  my  opinion  of  the  same,  with 
sdvice  as  to  his  future  course. 


356  THE  AUTOCRAT 

What  shall  I do  about  it  ? Tell  him  the  whole 
truth,  and  send  him  a ticket  of  admission  to  the 
Institution  for  Idiots  and  Feeble-minded  Youth  ? 
One  does  n’t  like  to  be  cruel,  — and  yet  one  hates 
to  lie.  Therefore  one  softens  down  the  ugly  cen- 
tral fact  of  donkeyism,  — recommends  study  of 
good  models,  — that  writing  verse  should  be  an 
incidental  occupation  only,  not  interfering  with 
the  hoe,  the  needle,  the  lapstone,  or  the  ledger,  — 
and,  above  all,  that  there  should  be  no  hurry  in 
printing  what  is  written.  Not  the  least  use  in  all 
this.  The  poetaster  who  has  tasted  type  is  done 
for.  He  is  like  the  man  who  has  once  been  a 
candidate  for  the  Presidency.  He  feeds  on  the 
madder  of  his  delusion  all  his  days,  and  his  very 
bones  grow  red  with  the  glow  of  his  foolish  fancy. 
One  of  these  young  brains  is  like  a bunch  of 
India  crackers  ; once  touch  lire  to  it  and  it  is  best 
to  keep  hands  off  until  it  has  done  popping,  — if 
it  ever  stops.  I have  two  letters  on  file  ; one  is  a 
pattern  of  adulation,  the  other  of  impertinence. 
My  reply  to  the  first,  containing  the  best  advice 
I could  give,  conveyed  in  courteous  language,  had 
brought  out  the  second.  There  was  some  sport 
in  this,  but  Dulness  is  not  commonly  a game  fish, 
and  only  sulks  after  he  is  struck.  You  may  set 
it'  down  as  a truth  which  admits  of  few  exceptions, 
that  those  who  ask  your  opinion  really  want  your 
yraise,  and  will  be  contented  with  nothing  less. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  357 

There  is  another  kind  of  application  to  which 
editors,  or  those  supposed  to  have  access  to  them/ 
are  liable,  and  which  often  proves  trying  and 
painful.  One  is  appealed  to  in  behalf  of  some 
person  in  needy  circumstances  wrho  wishes  to 
make  a living  by  the  pen.  A manuscript  accom- 
panying the  letter  is  offered  for  publication.  It 
is  not  commonly  brilliant,  too  often  lamentably 
deficient.  If  Rachel’s  saying  is  true,  that  “ for- 
tune is  the  measure  of  intelligence,”  then  poverty 
is  evidence  of  limited  capacity,  which  it  too  fre- 
quently proves  to  be,  notwithstanding  a noble 
exception  here  and  there.  Now  an  editor  is  a 
person  under  a contract  with  the  public  to  furnish 
them  with  the  best  things  he  can  afford  for  his 
money.  Charity  shown  by  the  publication  of  an 
inferior  article  would  be  like  the  generosity  of 
Claude  Duval  and  the  other  gentlemen  highway- 
men, who  pitied  the  poor  so  much  they  robbed 
the  rich  to  have  the  means  of  relieving  them. 

Though  I am  not  and  never  was  an  editor,  I 
know  something  of  the  trials  to  which  they  are 
submitted.  They  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  de- 
velop enormous  calluses  at  every  point  of  contact 
with  authorship.  Their  business  is  not  a matter 
of  sympathy,  but  of  intellect.  They  must  reject 
the  unfit  productions  of  those  whom  they  long  to 
befriend,  because  it  would  be  a profligate  charity 
to  accept  them.  One  cannot  burn  his  house  down 


358  THE  AUTOCRAT 

to  warm  the  hands  even  of  the  fatherless  and  the 
widow. 

THE  PROFESSOR  UNDER  CHLOROFORM. 

You  haven’t  heard  about  my  friend  the 

Professor’s  first  experiment  in  the  use  of  anaes- 
thetics, have  you  ? 

He  was  mightily  pleased  with  the  reception  of 
that  poem  of  his  about  the  chaise.  He  spoke  to 
me  once  or  twice  about  another  poem  of  similar 
character  he  wanted  to  read  me,  which  I told  him 
I would  listen  to  and  criticise. 

One  day,  after  dinner,  he  came  in  with  his  face 
tied  up,  looking  very  red  in  the  cheeks  and  heavy 
about  the  eyes. — Hy’r’ye?  — he  said,  and  made 
for  an  arm-chair,  in  which  he  placed  first  his  hat 
and  then  his  person,  going  smack  through  the 
crown  of  the  former,  as  neatly  as  they  do  the  trick 
at  the  circus.  The  Professor  jumped  at  the  ex- 
plosion as  if  he  had  sat  down  on  one  of  those 
small  calthrops  our  grandfathers  used  to  sow  round 
in  the  grass  when  there  were  Indians  about,  — 
iron  stars,  each  ray  a rusty  thorn  an  inch  and  a 
half  long,  — stick  through  moccasins  into  feet, — 
cripple  ’em  on  the  spot,  and  give  ’em  lockjaw  in  a 
day  or  two. 

At  the  same  time  he  let  off  one  of  those  big 
words  which  lie  at  the  bottom  of  the  best  man’s 
vocabulary,  but  perhaps  never  turn  up  in  his  life, 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 


359 

— just  as  every  man’s  hair  may  stand  on  end,  but 
in  most  men  it  never  does. 

After  he  had  got  calm,  he  pulled  out  a sheet  or 
two  of  manuscript,  together  with  a smaller  scrap, 
on  which,  as  he  said,  he  had  just  been  writing  an 
introduction  or  prelude  to  the  main  performance. 
A certain  suspicion  had  come  into  my  mind  that 
the  Professor  was  not  quite  right,  which  was  con* 
firmed  by  the  way  he  talked ; but  I let  him  begin. 
This  is  the  way  he  read  it : — 

Prelude. 

1 ’m  the  fellah  that  tole  one  day 
The  tale  of  the  won’erful  one-hoss  shay. 

Wan’  to  hear  another  ? Say. 

— Funny,  was  n'it  ? Made  me  laugh,  — 

I ’m  too  modest,  I am,  by  half, — 

Made  me  laugh ’s  thouyh  I sFd  split , — 

Cahn’  a fellah  like  fellah’s  own  wit  ? 

— Fellahs  keep  sayin’,  “ Well,  now  that ’s  nice  *, 

Did  it  once,  but  cahn’  do  it  twice.”  — 

Don’  you  bHieve  the  ’z  no  more  fat ; 

Lots  in  the  kitch’n  ’z  good  ’z  that. 

Fus’-rate  throw,  ’n’  no  mistake, — 

Han’  us  the  props  for  another  shake  5 — 

Know  I ’ll  try,  ’n’  guess  I ’ll  win  $ 

Here  sh’  goes  for  hit ’m  ag’in  ! 

Here  I thought  it  necessary  to  interpose.  — Pro- 
fessor, — I said,  — you  are  inebriated.  The  style 
of  what  you  call  your  “ Prelude  ” shows  that  it  was 
written  under  cerebral  excitement.  Your  articu- 
lation is  confused.  You  have  told  me  three  times 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


360 

in  succession,  in  exactly  the  same  words,  that  1 
was  the  only  true  friend  you  had  in  the  world  that 
you  would  unbutton  your  heart  to.  You  smell 
distinctly  and  decidedly  of  spirits.  — I spoke,  and 
paused  ; tender,  but  firm. 

Two  large  tears  orbed  themselves  beneath  the 
Professor’s  lids,  — in  obedience  to  the  principle  of 
gravitation  celebrated  in  that  delicious  bit  of  blad- 
dery bathos,  “ The  very  law  that  moulds  a tear,” 
with  which  the  “ Edinburgh  Review  ” attempted 
to  put  down  Master  George  Gordon  when  that 
young  man  was  foolishly  trying  to  make  himself 
conspicuous. 

One  of  these  tears  peeped  over  the  edge  of  the 
lid  until  it  lost  its  balance,  — slid  an  inch  and 
waited  for  reinforcements,  — swelled  again,  — 
rolled  down  a little  further,  — stopped,  — moved 
on,  — and  at  last  fell  on  the  back  of  the  Profes- 
sor’s hand.  He  held  it  up  for  me  to  look  at,  and 
lifted  his  eyes,  brimful,  till  they  met  mine. 

I could  n’t  stand  it,  — I always  break  down 
when  folks  cry  in  my  face,  — so  I hugged  him, 
and  said  he  was  a dear  old  boy,  and  asked  him 
kindly  what  was  the  matter  with  him,  and  what 
made  him  smell  so  dreadfully  strong  of  spirits. 

Upset  his  alcohol  lamp,  — he  said,  — and  spilt 
the  alcohol  on  his  legs.  That  was  it.  — But  what 
had  he  been  doing  to  get  his  head  into  such  a 
state  % — had  he  really  committed  an  excess  ? 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  361 

What  was  the  matter  ? — Then  it  came  out  that 
he  had  been  taking  chloroform  to  have  a tooth 
out,  which  had  left  him  in  a very  queer  state,  in 
which  he  had  written  the  “ Prelude  ” given  above, 
and  under  the  influence  of  which  he  evidently  was 
still. 

I took  the  manuscript  from  his  hands  and  read 
the  following  continuation  of  the  lines  he  had  be- 
gun to  read  me,  while  he  made  up  for  two  or  three 
nights’  lost  sleep  as  he  best  might. 

PARSON  TURELL’S  LEGACY: 

OR,  THE  PRESIDENT’S  OLD  ARM-CHAIR. 

A MATHEMATICAL  STORY. 

Facts  respecting  an  old  arm-chair. 

At  Cambridge.  Is  kept  in  the  College  there. 

Seems  but  little  the  worse  for  wear. 

That ’s  remarkable  when  I say 
It  was  old  in  President  Holyoke’s  day. 

(One  of  his  boys,  perhaps  you  know, 

Died,  at  one  hundred , years  ago.) 

He  took  lodging  for  rain  or  shine 
Under  green  bed-clothes  in  ’69. 

Know  Old  Cambridge  ? Hope  you  do.  — 

Born  there  ? Don’t  say  so  ! I was,  too. 

(Born  in  a house  with  a gambrel-roof,  — 

Standing  still,  if  you  must  have  proof.  — 

“ Gambrel  ? — Gambrel  ? ” — Let  me  beg 
You  ’ll  look  at  a horse’s  hinder  leg,  — 

First  great  angle  above  the  hoof,  — 

That ’s  the  gambrel ; hence  gambrel-roof.) 

•—Nicest  place  that  ever  was  seen, — 


362 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


Colleges  red  and  Common  green, 

Sidewalks  brownish  with  trees  between. 
Sweetest  spot  beneath  the  skies 
When  the  canker-worms  don’t  rise,  — 

When  the  dust,  that  sometimes  flies 
Into  your  mouth  and  ears  and  eyes, 

In  a quiet  slumber  lies, 

Not  in  the  shape  of  unbaked  pies 
Such  as  barefoot  children  prize. 

A kind  of  harbor  it  seems  to  be, 

Facing  the  flow  of  a boundless  sea. 

Rows  of  gray  old  Tutors  stand 
Ranged  like  rocks  above  the  sand  ; 

Rolling  beneath  them,  soft  and  green, 

Breaks  the  tide  of  bright  sixteen,  — 

One  wave,  two  waves,  three  waves,  four, 
Sliding  up  the  sparkling  floor  ; 

Then  it  ebbs  to  flow  no  more, 

Wandering  oil  from  shore  to  shore 
With  its  freight  of  golden  ore  ! 

— Pleasant  place  for  boys  to  play  ; — 

Better  keep  your  girls  away  j 

Hearts  get  rolled  as  pebbles  do 

Which  countless  fingering  waves  pursue, 

And  every  classic  beach  is  strown 

With  heart-shaped  pebbles  of  blood-red  stone. 

But  this  is  neither  here  nor  there  ; — 

I ’m  talking  about  an  old  arm-chair. 

You ’ve  heard,  no  doubt,  of  Parson  Tcrell 
Over  at  Medford  he  used  to  dwell  ; 

Married  one  of  the  Mathers’  folk  ; 

Got  with  his  wife  a chair  of  oak,  — 

Funny  old  chair,  with  seat  like  wedge, 

Sharp  behind  and  broad  front  edge, — 

One  of  the  oddest  of  human  things, 

Turned  all  over  with  knobs  and  rings, 


OF  THE  BREAK  FAS  T-  TABLE.  363 

Bat  heavy,  and  wide,  and  deep,  and  grand,  — 

Fit  for  the  worthies  of  the  land,  — 

Chief-Justice  Sewall  a cause  to  try  in, 

Or  Cotton  Mather  to  sit  — and  lie  — in. 

— Parson  Turell  bequeathed  the  same 
To  a certain  student, — Smith  by  name  5 
These  were  the  terms,  as  we  are  told  : 

“ Saide  Smith  saide  Chaire  to  have  and  holde  $ 

When  he  doth  graduate,  then  to  passe 
To  ye  oldest  Youth  in  ye  Senior  Classe. 

On  Payment  of  ” — (naming  a certain  sum)  — 

“ By  him  to  whom  y«  Chaire  shall  come  *, 

He  to  ye  oldest  Senior  next, 

And  soe  forever,”  — (thus  runs  the  text,)  — 

But  one  Crown  lesse  then  he  gave  to  claime, 

That  being  his  Debte  for  use  of  same.” 

Smith  transferred  it  to  one  of  the  Browns, 

And  took  his  money,  — five  silver  crowns. 

Brown  delivered  it  up  to  Moore, 

Who  paid,  it  is  plain,  not  five,  but  four. 

Moore  made  over  the  chair  to  Lee, 

Who  gave  him  crowns  of  silver  three. 

Lee  conveyed  it  unto  Drew, 

And  now  the  payment,  of  course,  was  two. 

Drew  gave  up  the  chair  to  Dunn,  — 

All  he  got,  as  you  see,  was  one. 

Dunn  released  the  chair  to  Hall, 

And  got  by  the  bargain  no  crown  at  all. 

And  now  it  passed  to  a second  Brown, 

Who  took  it,  and  likewise  claimed  a crown . 

When  Brown  conveyed  it  unto  Ware, 

Having  had  one  crown,  to  make  it  fair, 

He  paid  him  two  crowns  to  take  the  chair  ; 

And  Ware,  being  honest,  (as  all  Wares  be,) 

He  paid  one  Potter,  who  took  it,  three. 

Four  got  Robinson  •,  five  got  Dix  ; 

Johnson  primus  demanded  six  5 


36+ 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


And  so  the  sum  kept  gathering  still 
Till  after  the  battle  of  Bunker’s  Hill. 

— When  paper  money  became  so  cheap, 

Folks  would  n’t  count  it,  but  said  “ a heap,” 

A certain  Richards,  the  books  declare,  — 

(A.  M.  in  ’90  ? I ’ve  looked  with  care 
Through  the  Triennial,  — name  not  there,} 

This  person,  Richards,  was  offered  then 
Eight  score  pounds,  but  would  have  ten  ; 

Nine,  I think,  was  the  sum  he  took,  — 

Not  quite  certain,  — but  see  the  book.  — 

By  and  by  the  wars  were  still, 

But  nothing  had  altered  the  Parson’s  will. 

The  old  arm-chair  was  solid  yet, 

But  saddled  with  such  a monstrous  debt  1 
Things  grew  quite  too  bad  to  bear, 

Paying  such  sums  to  get  rid  of  the  chair  ! 

But  dead  men’s  fingers  hold  awful  tight, 

And  there  was  the  will  in  black  and  white, 

Plain  enough  for  a child  to  spell. 

What  should  be  done  no  man  could  tell, 

For  the  chair  was  a kind  of  nightmare  curse, 

And  every  season  but  made  it  worse. 

As  a last  resort,  to  clear  the  doum,, 

They  got  old  Governor  Hancock  out. 

The  Governor  came,  with  his  Light-horse  Troop 
And  his  mounted  truckmen,  all  cock-a-hoop  ; 
Halberds  glittered  and  colors  flew, 

French  horns  whinnied  and  trumpets  blew, 

The  yellow  fifes  whistled  between  their  teeth 
And  the  bumble-bee  bass-drums  boomed  beneath 
So  he  rode  with  all  his  band, 

Till  the  President  met  him,  cap  in  hand. 

— The  Governor  “ hefted  ” the  crowns,  and  said 
“ A will  is  a will,  and  the  Parson’s  dead.” 

The  Governor  hefted  the  crowns.  Said  he,  — 

“ There  is  your  p’int.  And  here ’s  my  fee. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-  TABLE.  365 

These  are  the  terms  you  must  fulfil, — 

On  such  conditions  I break  the  will  ! ’’ 

The  Governor  mentioned  what  these  should  be. 

(Just  wait  a minute  and  then  you  ’ll  see.) 

The  President  prayed.  Then  all  was  still, 

And  the  Governor  rose  and  broke  the  will  ! 

— “ About  those  conditions  ? ” Well,  now  you  go 
And  do  as  I tell  you,  aud  then  you  ’ll  knew. 

Once  a year,  on  Commencement-day, 

If  you  ’ll  only  take  the  pains  to  stay, 

You  ’ll  see  the  President  in  the  Chair, 

Likewise  the  Governor  sitting  there. 

The  President  rises  \ both  old  and  young 
May  hear  his  speech  in  a foreign  tongue, 

The  meaning  whereof,  as  lawyers  swear, 

Is  this : Can  I keep  this  old  arm-chair  ? 

And  then  his  Excellency  bows, 

As  much  as  to  say  that  he  allows. 

The  Yice-Gub.  next  is  called  by  name  ; 

He  bows  like  t’  other,  which  means  the  same- 
And  all  the  officers  round  ’em  bow, 

As  much  as  to  say  that  they  allow. 

And  a lot  of  parchments  about  the  chair 
Are  handed  to  witnesses  then  and  there, 

And  then  the  lawyers  hold  it  clear 
That  the  chair  is  safe  for  another  year. 

God  bless  you,  Gentlemen  ! Learn  to  give 
Money  to  colleges  while  you  live. 

Don’t  be  silly  and  think  you  ’ll  try 
To  bother  the  colleges  when  you  die, 

With  codicil  this,  and  codicil  that, 

That  Knowledge  may  starve  while  Law  grows  fat  *, 

For  there  never  was  pitcher  that  would  n’t  spill, 

And  there ’s  always  a flaw  in  a donkey’s  will ! 

Hospitality  is  a good  ,deal  a matter  of  lati 

tude,  I suspect.  The  shade  of  a palm-tree  serves 


366  THE  AUTOCRAT 

an  African  for  a hut ; his  dwelling  is  all  door  and 
no  walls ; everybody  can  come  in.  To  make  a 
morning  call  on  an  Esquimaux  acquaintance,  one 
must  creep  through  a long  tunnel ; his  house  is 
all  walls  and  no  door,  except  such  a one  as  an 
apple  with  a worm-hole  has.  One  might,  very 
probably,  trace  a regular  gradation  between  these 
two  extremes.  In  cities  where  the  evenings  are 
generally  hot,  the  people  have  porches  at  their 
doors,  where  they  sit,  and  this  is,  of  course,  a 
provocative  to  the  interchange  of  civilities.  A 
good  deal,  which  in  colder  regions  is  ascribed  to 
mean  dispositions,  belongs  really  to  mean  tem- 
perature. 

Once  in  a while,  even  in  our  Northern  cities,  at 
noon,  in  a very  hot  summer’s  day,  one  may  real- 
ize, by  a sudden  extension  in  his  sphere  of  con- 
sciousness, how  closely  he  is  shut  up  for  the  most 
part.  Do  you  not  remember  something  like  this  ? 
July,  between  1 and  2,  p.  m.,  Fahrenheit  96c,  or 
thereabout.  Windows  all  gaping,  like  the  mouths 
of  panting  dogs.  Long,  stinging  cry  of  a locust 
comes  in  from  a tree,  half  a mile  off ; had  forgot- 
ten there  was  such  a tree.  Baby’s  screams  from 
a house  several  blocks  distant  ; — never  knew 
there  were  any  babies  in  the  neighborhood  before. 
Tinman  pounding  something  that  clatters  dread- 
fully,— very  distinct,  but  don’t  remember  any 
tinman’s  shop  near  by.  Horses  stamping  on 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  367 

pavement  to  get  off  flies.  When  you  hear  these 
four  sounds,  you  may  set  it  down  as  a warm  day. 
Then  it  is  that  one  would  like  to  imitate  the  mode 
of  life  of  the  native  at  Sierra  Leone,  as  somebody 
has  described  it : stroll  into  the  market  in  natural 
costume,  — buy  a water-melon  for  a halfpenny, — 
split  it,  and  scoop  out  the  middle,  — sit  down  in 
one  half  of  the  empty  rind,  clap  the  other  on  one’s 
head,  and  feast  upon  the  pulp. 

— — I see  some  of  the  London  journals  have 
been  attacking  some  of  their  literary  people  for 
lecturing,  on  the  ground  of  its  being  a public 
exhibition  of  themselves  for  money.  A popular 
author  can  print  his  lecture ; if  he  deliver  it,  it 
is  a case  of  qucestum  corpore,  or  making  profit  of 
his  person.  None  but  “ snobs  ” do  that.  Ergo , 
etc.  To  this  I reply,  Negatur  minor.  Her  Most 
Gracious  Majesty,  the  Queen,  exhibits  herself 
to  the  public  as  a part  of  the  service  for  which 
she  is  paid.  We  do  not  consider  it  low-bred  in 
her  to  pronounce  her  own  speech,  and  should 
prefer  it  so  to  hearing  it  from  any  other  person, 
or  reading  it.  His  Grace  and  his  Lordship  ex- 
hibit themselves  very  often  for  popularity,  and 
their  houses  every  day  for  money.  — No,  if  a man 
shows  himself  other  than  he  is,  if  he  belittles  him- 
self before  an  audience  for  hire,  then  he  acts  un- 
worthily. But  a true  word,  fresh  from  the  lips  of 
true  man,  is  worth  paying  for,  at  the  rate  of 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


368 

eight  dollars  a day,  or  even  of  fifty  dollars  a lec- 
ture. The  taunt  must  be  an  outbreak  of  jealousy 
against  the  renowned  authors  who  have  the  au- 
dacity to  be  also  orators.  The  sub-lieutenants  (of 
the  press)  stick  a too  popular  writer  and  speaker 
with  an  epithet  in  England,  instead  of  with  a 
rapier,  as  in  France.  — Poh  ! All  England  is 
one  great  menagerie,  and,  all  at  once,  the  jackal, 
who  admires  the  gilded  cage  of  the  royal  beast, 
must  protest  against  the  vulgarity  of  the  talking- 
bird’s  and  the  nightingale’s  being  willing  to  be- 
come a part  of  the  exhibition  ! 

THE  LONG  PATH. 

(Last  of  the  Parentheses.) 

Yes,  that  was  my  last  walk  with  the  school - 
mistress.  It  happened  to  be  the  end  of  a term ; 
and  before  the  next  began,  a very  nice  young 
woman,  who  had  been  her  assistant,  was  an* 
nounced  as  her  successor,  and  she  was  provided 
for  elsewhere.  So  it  was  no  longer  the  school- 
mistress that  I walked  with,  but Let  us  not 

be  in  unseemly  haste.  I shall  call  her  the  school* 
mistress  still ; some  of  you  love  her  under  that 
name. 

When  it  became  known  among  the  boarders 

that  two  of  their  number  had  joined  hands  to 
walk  down  the  long  path  of  life  side  by  side, 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  369 

there  was,  as  you  may  suppose,  no  small  sen- 
sation. I confess  I pitied  our  landlady.  It  took 
her  all  of  a suddin,  — she  said.  Had  not  known 
that  we  was  keepin  company,  and  never  mistrusted 
anything  partic’lar.  Ma’am  was  right  to  better 
herself.  Did  n’t  look  very  rugged  to  take  care  of 
a femily,  but  could  get  hired  haalp,  she  calc’lated. 
— The  great  maternal  instinct  came  crowding  up 
in  her  soul  just  then,  and  her  eyes  wandered  until 
they  settled  on  her  daughter. 

No,  poor,  dear  woman, — that  could  not 

have  been.  But  I am  dropping  one  of  my  inter- 
nal tears  for  you,  with  this  pleasant  smile  on  my 
face  all  the  time. 

The  great  mystery  of  God’s  providence  is  the 
permitted  crushing  out  of  flowering  instincts. 
Life  is  maintained  by  the  respiration  of  oxygen 
and  of  sentiments.  In  the  long  catalogue  of  sci- 
entific cruelties  there  is  hardly  anything  quite  so 
painful  to  think  of  as  that  experiment  of  putting 
an  animal  under  the  bell  of  an  air-pump  and  ex- 
hausting the  air  from  it.  [I  never  saw  the  ac- 
cursed trick  performed.  Laus  Deo  /]  There  comes 
a time  when  the  souls  of  human  beings,  women, 
perhaps,  more  even  than  men,  begin  to  faint  for  the 
atmosphere  of  the  affections  they  were  made  to 
breathe.  Then  it  is  that  Society  places  its  trans- 
parent bell-glass  over  the  young  woman  who  is  to 
be  the  subject  of  one  of  its  fatal  experiments.  The 
24 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


370 

element  by  which  only  the  heart  lives  is  sucked 
out  of  her  crystalline  prison.  Watch  her  through 
its  transparent  walls;  — her  bosom  is  heaving; 
but  it  is  in  a vacuum.  Death  is  no  riddle,  com- 
pared to  this.  I remember  a poor  girl's  story  in 
the  “ Book  of  Martyrs.”  The  “ dry-pan  and  the 
gradual  fire”  were  the  images  that  frightened  her 
most.  How  many  have  withered  and  wasted  un- 
der as  slow  a torment  in  the  walls  of  that  larger 
Inquisition  which  we  call  Civilization  ! 

Yes,  my  surface-thought  laughs  at  you,  you  fool- 
ish, plain,  overdressed,  mincing,  cheaply-organized, 
self-saturated  young  person,  whoever  you  may  be, 
now  reading  this,  — little  thinking  you  are  what  I 
describe,  and  in  blissful  unconsciousness  that  you 
are  destined  to  the  lingering  asphyxia  of  soul 
which  is  the  lot  of  such  multitudes  worthier  than 
yourself.  But  it  is  only  my  surface-thought  which 
laughs.  For  that  great  procession  of  the  unloved, 
who  not  only  wear  the  crown  of  thorns,  but  must 
hide  it  under  the  locks  of  brown  or  gray,  — under 
die  snowy  cap,  under  the  chilling  turban,  — hide 
it  even  from  themselves,  — perhaps  never  know 
they  wear  it,  though  it  kills  them,  — there  is  no 
depth  of  tenderness  in  my  nature  that  Pity  has 
not  sounded.  Somewhere,  — somewhere,  — love 
is  in  store  for  them,  — the  universe  must  not  be 
allowed  to  fool  them  so  cruelly.  What  infinite 
pathos  in  the  small,  half-unconscious  artifices  by 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  371 
which  unattractive  young  persons  seek  to  recom- 
mend themselves  to  the  favor  of  those  towards 
whom  our  dear  sisters,  the  unloved,  like  the  rest, 
are  impelled  by  their  God-given  instincts  ! 

Read  what  the  singing-women  — one  to  ten  thou- 
sand of  the  suffering  women  — tell  us,  and  think 
of  the  griefs  that  die  unspoken  ! Nature  is  in  eai 
nest  when  she  makes  a woman ; and  there  are 
women  enough  lying  in  the  next  churchyard  with 
very  commonplace  blue  slate-stones  at  their  head 
and  feet,  for  whom  it  was  just  as  true  that  “all 
sounds  of  life  assumed  one  tone  of  love,”  as  for 
Letitia  Landon,  of  whom  Elizabeth  Browning  said 
it ; but  she  could  give  words  to  her  grief,  and  they 
could  not.  — Will  you  hear  a few  stanzas  of  mine  ? 

THE  VOICELESS. 

We  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 
Where  the  sweet  wailing  singers  slumber,  — 

But  o’er  their  silent  sister’s  breast 
The  wild  flowers  who  will  stoop  to  number  ? 

A few  can  touch  the  magic  string, 

And  noisy  Fame  is  proud  to  win  them  ; — 

Alas  for  those  who  never  sing, 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  them  ! 

Nay,  grieve  not  for  the  dead  alone 

Whose  song  has  told  their  hearts’  sad  story,— 
Weep  for  the  voiceless,  who  have  known 
The  cross  without  the  crown  of  glory  ! 

Not  where  Leucadian  breezes  sweep 
O’er  Sappho’s  memory-haunted  billow, 

But  where  the  glistening  night-dews  weep 
On  nameless  sorrow’s  churchyard  pillow. 


37* 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


0 hearts  that  break  and  give  no  sign 
Save  whitening  lip  and  fading  tresses, 

Till  death  pours  out  his  cordial  wine 

Slow-dropped  from  Misery’s  crushing  presses,  — 

If  singing  breath  or  echoing  chord 
To  every  hidden  pang  were  given, 

What  endless  melodies  were  poured, 

As  sad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as  heaven  ! 

I hope  that  oar  landlady’s  daughter  is  not  so 
badly  off,  after  all.  That  young  man  from  an- 
other city  who  made  the  remark  which  you  re- 
member about  Boston  State-house  and  Boston 
folks,  has  appeared  at  our  table  repeatedly  of  late, 
and  has  seemed  to  me  rather  attentive  to  this 
young  lady.  Only  last  evening  I saw  him  lean- 
ing over  her  while  she  was  playing  the  accordion, 

— indeed,  I undertook  to  join  them  in  a song,  and 
got  as  far  as  “ Come  rest  in  this  boo-oo,”  when, 
my  voice  getting  tremulous,  I turned  off,  as  one 
steps  out  of  a procession,  and  left  the  basso  and 
soprano  to  finish  it.  I see  no  reason  why  this 
young  woman  should  not  be  a very  proper  match 
for  a man  that  laughs  about  Boston  State-house. 
He  can’t  be  very  particular. 

The  young  fellow  whom  I have  so  often  men- 
tioned was  a little  free  in  his  remarks,  but  very 
good-natured.  — Sorry  to  have  you  go,  — he  said. 

— Schoolma’am  made  a mistake  not  to  wait  for 

me.  Have  n’t  taken  anything  but  mournin’  fruit  at 
breakfast  since  I heard  of  it. Mourning  fruit. 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE . 


373 

— said  I,  — what’s  that? Huckleberries  and 

blackberries,  — said  he  ; — could  n’t  eat  in  colors, 
raspberries,  currants,  and  such,  after  a solemn 
thing  like  this  happening.  — The  conceit  seemed 
to  please  the  young  fellow.  It  you  will  believe  it, 
when  we  came  down  to  breakfast  the  next  morn- 
ing, he  had  carried  it  out  as  follows.  You  know 
those  odious  little  “ saas-plates  ” that  figure  so 
largely  at  boarding-houses,  and  especially  at  tav- 
erns, into  which  a strenuous  attendant  female 
trowels  little  dabs,  sombre  of  tint  and  heterogene- 
ous of  composition,  which  it  makes  you  feel  home- 
sick to  look  at,  and  into  which  you  poke  the  elas- 
tic coppery  teaspoon  with  the  air  of  a cat  dipping 
her  foot  into  a wash-tub,  — (not  that  I mean  to 
say  anything  against  them,  for  when  they  are  of 
tinted  porcelain  or  starry  many-faceted  crystal,  and 
hold  clean  bright  berries,  or  pale  virgin  honey,  or 
“lucent  syrups  tinct  with  cinnamon,”  and  the 
teaspoon  is  of  white  silver,  with  the  Tower-stamp, 
solid,  but  not  brutally  heavy,  — as  people  in  the 
green  stage  of  millionism  will  have  them,  — I can 
dally  with  their  amber  semi-fluids  or  glossy  spher- 
ules without  a shiver,) — you  know  these  small, 
deep  dishes,  I say.  When  we  came  down  the 
next  morning,  each  of  these  (two  only  excepted) 
was  covered  with  a broad  leaf.  On  lifting  this, 
each  boarder  found  a small  heap  of  solemn  black 
huckleberries.  But  one  of  those  plates  held  red 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


374 

currants,  and  was  covered  with  a red  rose ; the 
other  held  white  currants,  and  was  covered  with  a 
white  rose.  There  was  a laugh  at  this  at  first, 
and  then  a short  silence,  and  I noticed  that  her  lip 
trembled,  and  the  old  gentleman  opposite  was  in 
trouble  to  get  at  his  bandanna  handkerchief. 

“What  was  the  use  in  waiting?  We 

should  be  too  late  for  Switzerland,  that  season, 
if  we  waited  much  longer.”  — Tlie  hand  I held 
trembled  in  mine,  and  the  eyes  fell  meekly,  as 
Esther  bowed  herself  before  the  feet  of  Ahasuerus. 
— She  had  been  reading  that  chapter,  for  she 
looked  up,  — if  there  was  a film  of  moisture  over 
her  eyes  there  was  also  the  faintest  shadow  of  a 
distant  smile  skirting  her  lips,  but  not  enough  to 
accent  the  dimples,  — and  said,  in  her  pretty,  still 
way,  — “ If  it  please  the  king,  and  if  I have  found 
favor  in  his  sight,  and  the  thing  seem  right  before 
the  king,  and  I be  pleasing  in  his  eyes  ” 

I don't  remember  what  King  Ahasuerus  did  or 
said  when  Esther  got  just  to  that  point  of  her  soft, 
humble  words,  — but  I know  what  I did.  That 
quotation  from  Scripture  was  cut  short,  anyhow. 
We  came  to  a compromise  on  the  great  question, 
and  the  time  was  settled  for  the  last  day  of  sum- 
mer. 

In  the  mean  time,  I talked  on  with  our  board* 
ers,  much  as  usual,  as  you  may  see  by  what  I 
have  reported.  I must  say,  I was  pleased  with  a 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST- TABLE. 


375 

eertain  tenderness  they  all  showed  toward  us,  after 
the  first  excitement  of  the  news  was  over.  It  came 
out  in  trivial  matters,  — but  each  one  in  his,  or 
her  wav,  manifested  kindness.  Our  landlady,  for 
instance,  when  we  had  chickens,  sent  the  liver  in- 
stead of  the  gizzard,  with  the  wing,  for  the  school- 
mistress. This  was  not  an  accident ; the  two  are 
never  mistaken,  though  some  landladies  appear  as 
if  they  did  not  know  the  difference.  The  whole 
of  the  company  'were  even  more  respectfully  at- 
tentive to  my  remarks  than  usual.  There  was  no 
idle  punning,  and  very  little  winking  on  the  part 
of  that  lively  young  gentleman  who,  as  the  reader 
may  remember,  occasionally  interposed  some  play- 
ful question  or  remark,  which  could  hardly  be  con- 
sidered relevant,  — except  when  the  least  allusion 
was  made  to  matrimony,  when  he  would  look  at 
the  landlady’s  daughter,  and  wink  with  both  sides 
of  his  face,  until  she  would  ask  what  he  was 
pokin’  his  fun  at  her  for,  and  if  he  was  n’t  ashamed 
of  himself.  In  fact,  they  all  behaved  very  hand- 
somely, so  that  I really  felt  sorry  at  the  thought 
of  leaving  my  boarding-house. 

I suppose  you  think,  that,  because  I lived  at  a 
plain  widow-woman’s  plain  table,  I was  of  course 
more  or  less  infirm  in  point  of  worldly  fortune. 
You  may  not  be  sorry  to  learn,  that,  though  not 
what  great  merchants  call  very  rich,  I was  comfort- 
able, — comfortable,  — so  that  most  of  those  mod- 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


576 

frate  luxuries  I described  in  my  verses  on  Content- 
ment — most  of  them,  I say  — were  within  our  reach, 
if  we  chose  to  have  them.  But  I found  out  that 
the  schoolmistress  had  a vein  of  charity  about  her, 
which  had  hitherto  been  worked  on  a small  silver 
and  copper  basis,  which  made  her  think  less,  per- 
haps, of  luxuries  than  even  I did,  — modestly  as  I 
have  expressed  my  wishes. 

It  is  a rather  pleasant  thing  to  tell  a poor  young 
woman,  whom  one  has  contrived  to  win  without 
showing  his  rent-roll,  that  she  has  found  what  the 
world  values  so  highly,  in  following  the  lead  of 
her  affections.  That  was  an  enjoyment  I was  now 
ready  for. 

I began  abruptly  : — Do  you  know  that  you  are 
a rich  young  person  ? 

I know  that  I am  very  rich,  — she  said.  — 
Heaven  has  given  me  more  than  I ever  asked ; 
for  I had  not  thought  love  was  ever  meant  for 
me. 

It  was  a woman’s  confession,  and  her  voice  fell 
to  a whisper  as  it  threaded  the  last  words. 

I don’t  mean  that,  — I said,  — you  blessed  little 
saint  and  seraph  ! — if  there ’s  an  angel  missing  in 
the  New  Jerusalem,  inquire  for  her  at  this  board- 
ing-house ! — I don’t  mean  that ! I mean  that  I 
- — that  is,  you  — am  — are  — confound  it ! — 1 
mean  that  you  ’ll  be  what  most  people  call  a lady 
of  fortune.  — And  I looked  full  in  her  eyes  for  the 
effect  of  the  announcement. 


OF  THE  BREAKFA81  TABLE . 377 

There  was  n’t  any.  She  said  she  was  thankful 
that  I had  what  would  save  me  from  drudgery, 
and  that  some  other  time  I should  tell  her  about 
it.  — I never  made  a greater  failure  in  an  attempt 
to  produce  a sensation. 

So  the  last  day  of  summer  came.  It  was  our 
choice  to  go  to  the  church,  but  we  had  a kind  of 
reception  at  the  boarding-house.  The  presents 
were  all  arranged,  and  among  them  none  gave 
more  pleasure  than  the  modest  tributes  of  our  fel- 
low-boarders,— for  there  was  not  one,  I believe, 
who  did  not  send  something.  The  landlady  would 
insist  on  making  an  elegant  bride-cake,  with  her 
own  hands  ; to  which  Master  Benjamin  Frank- 
lin wished  to  add  certain  embellishments  out  of 
his  private  funds,  — namely,  a Cupid  in  a mouse- 
trap, done  in  white  sugar,  and  two  miniature  flags 
with  the  stars  and  stripes,  which  had  a very  pleas- 
ing effect,  I assure  you.  The  landlady’s  daughter 
sent  a richly  bound  copy  of  Tupper’s  Poems.  On 
a blank  leaf  was  the  following,  written  in  a very 
delicate  and  careful  hand  : — 

Presented  to  . . . by  . . . 

On  the  eve  ere  her  union  in  holy  matrimony. 

May  sunshine  ever  beam  o’er  her  ! 

Even  the  poor  relative  thought  she  must  do  some- 
thing, and  sent  a copy  of  “ The  Whole  Duty  of 
Man,”  bound  in  very  attractive  variegated  sheep- 
skin, the  edges  nicely  marbled.  From  the  divin- 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


378 

ity-student  came  the  loveliest  English  edition  of 
Keble’s  “ Christian  Year.”  I opened  it,  when  it 
came,  to  the  Fourth  Sunday  in  Lent , and  read  that 
angelic  poem,  sweeter  than  anything  I can  remem- 
ber since  Xavier’s  “ My  God,  I love  thee.” I 

am  not  a Churchman,  — I don’t  believe  in  plant- 
ing oaks  in  flower-pots,  — but  such  a poem  as 
“ The  Rosebud  ” makes  one’s  heart  a proselyte 
to  the  culture  it  grows  from.  Talk  about  it  as 
much  as  you  like,  — one’s  breeding  shows  itself 
nowhere  more  than  in  his  religion.  A man 
should  be  a gentleman  in  his  hymns  and  prayers ; 
the  fondness  for  “ scenes,”  among  vulgar  saints, 
contrasts  so  meanly  with  that  — 

“ God  only  and  good  angels  look 
Behind  the  blissful  scene,”  — 

and  that  other, — 

“ He  could  not  trust  his  melting  soul 
But  in  his  Maker’s  sight,”  — 

that  I hope  some  of  them  will  see  this,  and  read 
the  poem,  and  profit  by  it. 

My  laughing  and  winking  young  friend  under- 
took to  procure  and  arrange  the  flowers  for  the 
table,  and  did  it  with  immense  zeal.  I never  saw 
him  look  happier  than  when  he  came  in,  his  hat 
saucily  on  one  side,  and  a cheroot  in  his  mouth, 
with  a huge  bunch  of  tea-roses,  which  he  said 
were  for  “ Madam.” 


OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE 


379 


One  of  the  last  things  that  came  was  an  old 
square  box,  smelling  of  camphor,  tied  and  sealed. 
It  bore,  in  faded  ink,  the  marks,  “ Calcutta, 
1805.”  On  opening  it,  we  found  a white  Cash- 
mere  shawl,  with  a very  brief  note  from  the  dear 
old  gentleman  opposite,  saving  that  he  had  kept 
this  some  years,  thinking  he  might  want  it,  and 
many  more,  not  knowing  what  to  do  with  it,  — 
that  he  had  never  seen  it  unfolded  since  he  was  a 
young  supercargo,  — and  now,  if  she  would  spread 
it  on  her  shoulders,  it  would  make  him  feel  young 
to  look  at  it. 

Poor  Bridget,  or  Biddy,  our  red-armed  maid  of 
all  work  ! What  must  she  do  but  buy  a small 
copper  breast-pin  and  put  it  under  “ School- 
ma’am’s  ” plate  that  morning,  at  breakfast  ? 
And  Schoolma’am  would  wear  it,  — though  I 
made  her  cover  it,  as  well  as  I could,  with  a 
tea-rose. 

It  was  my  last  breakfast  as  a boarder,  and  I 
could  not  leave  them  in  utter  silence. 

Good-by,  — I said,  — my  dear  friends,  one  and 
all  of  you ! I have  been  long  with  you,  and  I 
find  it  hard  parting.  I have  to  thank  you  for  a 
thousand  courtesies,  and  above  all  for  the  patience 
and  indulgence  with  which  you  have  listened  to 
me  when  I have  tried  to  instruct  or  amuse  you. 
My  friend  the  Professor  (who,  as  well  as  my 
friend  the  Poet,  is  unavoidably  absent  on  tjhis 


THE  AUTOCRAT. 


380 

interesting  occasion)  has  given  me  reason  to  sup- 
pose that  he  would  occupy  my  empty  chair  about 
the  first  of  January  next.  If  he  comes  among 
you,  be  kind  to  him,  as  you  have  been  to  me. 
May  the  Lord  bless  you  all ! — And  we  shook 
hands  all  round  the  table. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  the  breakfast  things 
and  the  cloth  were  gone.  I looked  up  and  down 
the  length  of  the  bare  boards  over  which  I had  so 
often  uttered  my  sentiments  and  experiences  — 
and  — Yes,  I am  a man,  like  another. 

All  sadness  vanished,  as,  in  the  midst  of  these 
old  friends  of  mine,  whom  you  know,  and  others 
a little  more  up  in  the  world,  perhaps,  to  whom  I 
have  not  introduced  you,  I took  the  schoolmistress 
before  the  altar  from  the  hands  of  the  old  gentle- 
man who  used  to  sit  opposite,  and  who  would 
insist  on  giving  her  away. 

And  now  wre  two  are  walking  the  long  path  in 
peace  together.  The  “ schoolmistress  ” finds  her 
skill  in  teaching  called  for  again,  without  going 
abroad  to  seek  little  scholars.  Those  visions  of 
mine  have  all  come  true. 

I hope  you  all  love  me  none  the  less  for  any- 
thing I have  told  you.  Farewell ! 


APPENDIX. 


Note  A. 

The  “ body  of  scientific  young  men  in  a g.reat  for- 
eign city*’  was  the  Societe  d’Observation  M^dicale,  of 
Paris,  of  which  M.  Louis  was  president,  and  MM. 
Barth,  Grisotte,  and  our  own  Dr.  Bowditch  were  mem- 
bers. They  agreed  in  admiring  their  justly-honored 
president,  and  thought  highly  of  some  of  their  associ- 
ates, who  have  since  made  good  their  promise  of  dis- 
tinction. 

About  the  time  when  these  papers  were  published, 
the  Saturday  Club  was  founded,  or,  rather,  found  itself 
in  existence,  without  any  organization,  almost  without 
parentage.  It  was  natural  enough  that  such  men  as 
Emerson,  Longfellow,  Agassiz,  Peirce,  with  Haw- 
thorne, Motley,  Sumner,  when  within  reach,  and  others 
who  would  be  good  company  for  them,  should  meet  and 
dine  together  once  in  a while,  as  they  did,  in  point  of 
fact,  every  month,  and  as  some  who  are  still  living, 
with  other  and  newer  members,  still  meet  and  dine. 
If  some  of  them  had  not  admired  each  other  they 
would  have  been  exceptions  in  the  world  of  letters 
and  science.  The  club  deserves-  being  remembered  for 
herring  no  constitution  or  by-laws,  for  making  no 


APPENDIX. 


382 

speeches,  reading  no  papers,  observing  no  ceremonies, 
coming  and  going  at  will  without  remark,  and  acting 
out,  though  it  did  not  proclaim,  the  motto,  “ Shall  I 
take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn?”  There  was  and  is 
nothing  of  the  Bohemian  element  about  this  club,  but 
it  has  had  many  good  times  and  not  a little  good  talk- 
ing. 

Note  B. 

The  Treatise  on  Solitude  is  not  so  frequently  seen 
lying  about  on  library  tables  as  in  our  younger  days. 
I remember  that  1 always  respected  the  title  and  let  the 
book  alone. 

Note  C. 

It  was  an  agreeable  incident  of  two  consecutive  visits 
to  Hartford,  Conn.,  that  I met  there  the  late  Mrs.  Sig- 
ourney. The  second  meeting  recalled  the  first,  and 
with  it  the  allusion  to  the  Huma,  which  bird  is  the  sub- 
ject of  a short  poem  by  another  New  England  author- 
ess, which  may  be  found  in  Mr.  Griswold’s  collection. 

Note  D. 

There  is  something  like  this  in  J.  H.  Newman’s 
Grammar  of  Assent.  See  Characteristics , arranged 
by  W.  S.  Lilly,  p.  81. 


Note  E. 

The  full-length  pictures  by  Copley  I was  thinking  of 
are  such  as  ma}^  be  seen  in  the  Memorial  Hall  of  Har- 
vard University,  but  many  are  to  be  met  with  in  dif- 
ferent parts  of  New  England,  sometimes  in  the  posses- 
sion of  the  poor  descendants  of  the  rich  gentlefolks  in 
lace  ruffles  and  glistening  satins,  grandees  and  grand 


APPENDIX. 


383 

dames  of  the  ante-RevoJut  ionary  period.  I remember 
one  poor  old  gentleman,  who  had  nothing  left  of  his 
family  possessions  but  the  full-length  portraits  of  his 
ancestors,  the  Counsellor  and  his  lady,  saying,  with  a 
gleam  of  the  pleasantry  which  had  come  down  from 
the  days  of  Mather  Bvles,  and  “ Balch  the  Hatter,” 
and  Sigourney,  that  he  fared  not  so  badly  after  all,  for 
he  had  a pair  of  canvas-backs  every  day  through  the 
whole  year. 

The  mention  of  these  names,  all  of  which  are  mere 
traditions  to  myself  and  my  contemporaries,  reminds 
me  of  the  long  succession  of  wits  and  humorists  whose 
companionship  has  been  the  delight  of  their  generation, 
and  who  leave  nothing  on  record  by  which  they  will  be 
remembered:  Yoricks  who  set  the  table  in  a roar,  story- 
tellers who  gave  us  scenes  of  life  in  monologue  better 
than  the  stilted  presentments  of  the  stage,  and  those 
always  welcome  friends  with  social  interior  furnishings, 
whose  smile  provoked  the  wit  of  others,  and  whose  rich, 
musical  laughter  was  its  abundant  reward.  Who 
among  us,  in  my  earlier  days,  ever  told  a story  or  car- 
olled a rippling  chanson  so  gayly,  so  easily,  so  charm- 
ingly, as  John  Sullivan,  whose  memory  is  like  the 
breath  of  a long  bygone  summer?  Mr.  Arthur  Gil- 
man has  left  his  monument  in  the  stately  structures  he 
planned;  Mr.  James  T.  Fields  in  the  pleasant  volumes 
full  of  precious  recollections ; but  twenty  or  thirty 
years  from  now  old  men  will  tell  their  boys  that  the 
Yankee  story-teller  died  with  the  first,  and  that  the 
chief  of  our  literary  reminiscents,  whose  ideal  portrait 
gallery  reached  from  Wordsworth  to  Swinburne,  lef* 
us  when  the  second  bowed  his  head  and  “ fell  on  sleep,” 
no  longer  to  delight  the  guests  whom  his  hospital  it) 


APPENDIX . 


334 

gathered  around  him  with  the  pictures  to  which  his  lips 
gave  life  and  action. 

Note  F. 

“Our  dear  didascalos ” was  meant  for  Professor 
James  Russell  Lowell,  now  Minister  to  England.  It 
requires  the  union  of  exceptional  native  gifts  and  gen- 
erations of  training  to  bring  the  “natural  man”  of 
New  England  to  the  completeness  of  scholarly  man- 
hood, such  as  that  which  adds  new  distinction  to  the 
name  he  bearsj  already  remarkable  for  its  successive 
generations  of  eminent  citizens. 

“ Self-made”  is  imperfectly  made,  or  education  is  a 
superfluity  and  a failure. 

Note  G. 

This  hoped  for,  but  almost  despaired  of,  event,  oc- 
curred on  the  9th  of  February,  1875.  The  writer  of  the 
above  lines  was  as  much  pleased  as  his  fellow-citizens 
at  the  termination  of  an  enterprise  which  gave  constant 
occasion  for  the  most  inveterate  pun  on  record.  When 
the  other  conditions  referred  to  are  as  happily  fulfilled 
as  this  has  been,  he  will  still  say,  as  before,  that  it  is 
time  for  the  ascension  garment  to  be  ordered. 

Note  II. 

“ The  youngest  of  our  great  historians,”  referred  to  in 
the  poem,  was  John  Lothrop  Motley.  His  career  of  au- 
thorship was  as  successful  as  it  was  noble,  and  hi* 
works  are  among  the  chief  ornaments  of  our  national 
literature.  Are  Republics  still  ungrateful,  as  of  old  V 


APPENDIX. 


335 


\ 

Note  I. 

Accidents  are  liable  to  happen  if  no  thoroughly  trained 
expert  happens  to  be  present.  When  Catharine  Hays 
was  burnt  at  Tyburn,  in  1726,  the  officiating  artist 
scorched  his  own  hands,  and  the  whole  business  was 
awkwardly  managed  for  want  of  practical  familiarity 
with  the  process.  We  have  still  remaining  a guide  to 
direct  us  in  one  important  part  of  the  arrangements. 
Bishop  Hooper  was  burned  at  Gloucester,  England,  in 
the  year  1555.  A few  years  ago,  in  making  certain  ex- 
cavations, the  charred  stump  of  the  stake  to  which  he 
was  bound  was  discovered.  A11  account  of  the  inter- 
esting ceremony,  so  important  in  ecclesiastical  history, 
the  argumentum  ad  ignem , with  a photograph  of  the 
half-burned  stick  of  timber,  was  sent  me  by  my  friend, 
Mr.  John  Bellows,  of  Gloucester,  a zealous  antiquarian, 
widely  known  by  his  wonderful  miniature  French  dic- 
tionary, — one  of  the  scholarly  printers  and  publishers 
who  honor  the  calling  of  Aldus  and  the  Elzevirs.  The 
stake  was  big  enough  to  chain  the  whole  Bench  of  Bish- 
ops to  as  fast  as  the  Athanasian  creed  still  holds  them. 

Note  J. 

We  have  beaten  in  many  races  in  England  since  this 
was  written,  and  at  last  carried  off  the  blue  ribbon  of 
the  turf  at  Epsom.  But  up  to  the  present  time  trotting 
matches  and  base-ball  are  distinctively  American,  as 
contrasted  with  running  races  and  cricket,  which  be- 
long, as  of  right,  to  England.  The  wonderful  effects  of 
breeding  and  training  in  a particular  direction  are 
shown  in  the  records  of  the  trotting  horse.  In  1844 
Lady  Suffolk  trotted  a mile  in  2.26^,  which  was,  I 
25 


APPENDIX . 


386 

think,  the  fastest  time  to  that  date.  In  1859  Flora 
Temple’s  time  at  Kalamazoo  — I remember  Mr.  Emer- 
son surprised  me  once  by  correcting  my  error  of  a quar- 
ter of  a second  in  mentioning  it  — was2.19f.  Dexter 
in  1867  brought  the  figure  down  to  2.17J.  There  is 
now  a whole  class  of  horses  that  can  trot  under  2.20,  and 
in  1881  Maud  S.  distanced  all  previous  records  with 
2.10J.  Many  of  our  best  running  horses  go  to  Eng- 
land. Racing  in  distinction  from  trotting,  I think,  at- 
tracts less  attention  in  this  country  now  than  in  the 
days  of  American  Eclipse  and  Henry. 

Note  K. 

The  beautiful  island  referred  to  is  Naushon.  the  larg- 
est of  a group  lying  between  Buzzard’s  Bay  and  the 
Vineyard  Sound,  south  of  the  main-land  of  Massachu- 
setts. It  is  the  noblest  domain  in  New  England,  and 
the  present  Lord  of  the  Manor  is  worthy  of  succeeding 
“the  Governor  ” of  blessed  memory. 

Note  L. 

I remember  being  asked  by  a celebrated  man  of  let- 
ters to  bt  him  look  over  an  early  but  somewhat  elabo- 
rate poem  of  mine.  He  read  the  manuscript,  and  sug- 
gested the  change  of  one  word,  which  I adopted  in 
deference  to  his  opinion.  The  emendation  was  any- 
thing but  an  improvement,  and  in  later  editions  the  pas- 
sage reads  as  when  first  written. 

Note  M. 

I recollect  a British  criticism  of  the  poem  “ with  the 
slight  alterations,”  in  which  the  writer  was  quite  indig- 
nant at  the  treatment  my  convivial  song  had  received 


APPENDIX. 


38 7, 

So  committee,  he  thought,  would  dare  to  treat  a Scotch 
author  in  that  way.  I could  not  help  being  reminded 
of  Sydney  Smith,  and  the  surgical  operation  he  pro- 
posed, in  order  to  get  a pleasantry  into  the  head  of  a 
North  Briton. 

Note  N. 

The  “ Saturday  Club,”  before  referred  to,  answered 
as  well  to  this  description  as  some  others  better  known 
to  history.  Mathematics,  music,  art,  the  physical  and 
biological  sciences,  history,  philosophy,  poetry,  and 
other  branches  of  imaginative  literature  were  all  repre- 
sented by  masters  in  their  several  realms. 

Note  O. 

The  letters  received  by  authors  from  unknown  cor- 
respondents form  a curious  and,  I believe,  almost  un- 
recorded branch  of  literature.  The  most  interesting 
fact  connected  with  these  letters  is  this : If  a writer 

has  a distinct  personality  of  character,  an  intellectual 
flavor  peculiarly  his  own,  and  his  writings  are  some- 
what widely  spread  abroad,  he  will  meet  with  some, 
and  it  may  be  many,  readers  who  are  specially  attracted 
to  him  by  a certain  singularly  strong  affinity.  A writer 
need  not  be  surprised  when  some  simple-hearted  crea- 
ture, evidently  perfectly  sincere,  with  no  poem  or  story 
in  the  background  for  which  he  or  she  wants  your 
critical  offices,  meaning  too  frequently  your  praise,  and 
nothing  else,  — when  this  kind  soul  assures  him  or  her 
that  he  or  she,  the  correspondent,  loves  to  read  the  pro- 
ductions of  him  or  her,  the  writer,  better  than  those  of 
any  other  author,  living  or  dead.  There  is  no  need  of 
accounting  for  their  individual  preferences.  What  if 
a reader  prefer  you  to  the  classics,  whose  words  are  re- 


APPENDIX. 


388 

sounding  through  “ the  corridors  of  time  ” ! You  prob- 
ably come  much  nearer  to  his  intellectual  level.  The 
rose  is  the  sweetest  growth  of  the  garden,  but  shall  not 
your  harmless,  necessary  cat  prefer  the  aroma  of  that 
antiquely  odorous  valerian,  not  unfamiliar  to  hysteric 
womanhood  ? “ How  can  we  stand  the  tine  things  that 
are  said  of  us  ? ” asked  one  of  a bright  New  Englander, 
whom  New  York  has  borrowed  from  us.  “ Because  we 
feel  that  they  are  true ,”  he  answered.  At  any  rate,  if 
they  are  true  for  those  who  say  them,  we  need  not  quar- 
rel with  their  superlatives. 

But  what  revelations  are  to  be  read  in  these  letters ! 
From  the  lisp  of  vanity,  commending  itself  to  the  at- 
tention of  the  object  of  its  admiration,  to  the  cry  of  de- 
spair, which  means  insanity  or  death,  if  a wise  word  of 
counsel  or  a helping  hand  does  not  stay  it,  what  a 
gamut  of  human  utterances ! Each  individual  writer 
feels  as  if  he  or  she  were  the  only  one  to  be  listened  to 
and  succored,  little  remembering  that  merely  to  ac- 
knowledge the  receipt  of  the  letters  that  come  by  every 
post  is  no  small  part  of  every  day’s  occupation  to  a 
good-natured  and  moderately  popular  writer. 

Note  P. 

“ The  Leviathan  ” was  the  name  first  applied  to  the 
huge  vessel  afterwards  known  as  the  “ Great  Eastern.” 
The  trouble  which  arose  from  its  being  built  out  of  its 
“native  element,”  as  the  newspapers  call  it,  was  like 
the  puzzle  of  the  Primrose  household  after  the  great 
family  picture,  with  “ as  many  sheep  as  the  painter 
could  put  in  for  nothing,”  was  finished. 


APPENDIX. 


389 


Note  Q. 

I have  now  and  then  found  a naturalist  who  ^still 
worried  over  the  distinction  between  the  Pearly  Nauti- 
lus and  the  Paper  Nautilus,  or  Argonauta.  As  the  sto- 
ries about  both  are  but  mere  fables,  attaching  to  the 
Physalia,  or  Portuguese  man-of-war,  as  well  as  to  these 
two  molluscs,  it  seems  over-nice  to  quarrel  with  the  po- 
etical  handling  of  a fiction  sufficiently  justified  by  the 
name  commonly  applied  to  the  ship  of  pearl  as  well  as 
the  ship  of  paper. 

Note  R. 

Since  the  days  when  this  was  written  the  bicycle  has 
appeared  as  the  rival  of  the  wherry.  I have  witnessed 
three  appearances  of  the  pedal  locomotive.  The  first 
was  when  I was  a boy.  (The  machine  was  introduced 
into  Great  Britain  from  France  about  1820.)  Some  of 
the  Harvard  College  students  who  boarded  in  my  neigh- 
borhood had  these  machines,  then  called  velocipedes, 
on  which  they  used  to  waddle  along  like  so  many 
ducks,  their  feet  pushing  against  the  ground,  and  look- 
ing as  if  they  were  perched  on  portable  treadmills. 
They  soon  found  that  legs  were  made  before  veloci- 
pedes. Our  grown-up  young  people  may  remember 
the  second  advent  of  the  contrivance,  now  become  a 
treadle-locomotive.  There  were  “rinks”  where  this 
form  of  roller-skating  had  a brief  run,  and  then  legs 
again  asserted  their  prior  claim  and  greater  conven- 
ience. At  the  Centennial  Exhibition  at  Philadelphia, 
in  1876,  I first  saw  the  modern  bicycles,  some  of  them, 
at  least,  from  Coventry,  England.  * Since  that  time  the 
bicycle  glides  in  and  out  everywhere,  noiseless  as  a 
serpent 


390 


APPENDIX. 


And  [wheels]  rush  in  where  [horses]  fear  to  tread. 
The  boat  flies  like  a sea-bird  with  its  long,  narrow, 
outstretched  pinions  ; the  bicycle  rider,  like  feath- 
ered Mercury,  with  his  wings  on  his  feet.  There 
seems  to  be  nothing  left  to  perfect  in  the  way  of  hu- 
man locomotion  but  aerial  swimming,  which  some 
fancy  is  to  be  a conquest  of  the  future. 

Note  S. 

This  poem  was  written  for  and  read  at  a meeting  of 
the  Massachusetts  Medical  Society. 

Note  T. 

44  Mr.  Paddock’s  row  of  English  elms  ” has  gone, 
but  “Poor  Beniamin”  lies  quietly  under  the  same 
stone  the  schoolmistress  saw  through  the  iron  rails. 

Note  U. 

“That  friend  of  mine  ” was  the  late  Joseph  Roby, 
once  a fellow-teacher  with  me  in  the  Medical  School 
of  Dartmouth  College,  afterwards  professor  in  the 
University  of  Maryland.  He  was  a man  of  keen  in- 
tellect and  warm  affections,  but  out  of  the  range  of 
his  official  duties  seen  of  few  and  understood  only  by 
a very  limited  number  of  intimates.  I used  to  refer 
to  my  wise  friend  so  often,  and  he  was  so  rarely  visi- 
ble, that  some  doubted  if  there  was  any  such  individ- 
ual, or  if  he  were  not  of  the  impersonal  nature  of 
Sairv  Gamp’s  Mrs.  Harris.  I remember  Emerson 
was  one  of  these  smiling  sceptics. 

Note  V. 

The  marble  tablets  and  memorial  windows  in  our 
churches  and  monumental  buildings  bear  evidence  as 


APPENDIX . 


391 


to  whether  the  young  men  of  favored  social  position 
proved  worthy  of  their  privileges  or  not  during  the 
four  years  of  trial  which  left  us  a nation. 

Note  W. 

It  would  have  been  well  if  I had  consulted  Notes  and 
Queries  before  telling  this  story.  A year  or  two  be- 
fore the  time  when  I was  writing,  a number  of  commu- 
nications relating  to  the  subject  were  sent  to  that  peri- 
odical. A correspondent  called  my  attention  to  them, 
and  other  correspondents  — Miss  H.  P.,  of  London, 
the  librarian  of  a public  institution  at  Dublin,  a young 
gentleman,  writing  from  Cornwall,  and  others,  whose 
residences  I do  not  now  remember  — wrote  to  me,  men- 
tioning stories  like  that  which  the  coachman  told  me. 
The  self-reproduction  of  the  legend  wherever  there  was 
a stone  to  hang  it  on  seems  to  me  so  interesting,  as 
bearing  on  the  philosophy  of  tradition,  that  I subjoin  a 
number  of  instances  from  Notes  and  Queries. 

In  the  first  the  thief’s  booty  was  a deer  and  not  a 
sheep,  as  the  common  account  made  it.  The  incident 
not  only  involved  a more  distinguished  quadruped,  but 
also  was  found  worthy  of  being  commemorated  in 
rhyme. 

N.  cf  Q.,  January  5,  1856. 

“ In  Potter’s  Churnwood , p.  179,  a 1 Legend  of  the 
Hangman’s  Stone,’  in  verse,  is  given,  in  which  the 
death  of  John  of  Oxley  is  described. 


‘ One  shaft  he  drew  on  his  well-tried  yew, 
And  a gallant  hart  lay  dead  ; 

He  tied  its  legs,  and  he  hoisted  his  prize, 
And  he  toiled  over  Lubcloud  brow. 


392 


APPENDIX. 


He  reached  the  tall  stone,  standing  out  and  alone, 
Standing  then  as  it  standeth  now  ; 

With  his  back  to  the  stone  he  rested  his  load, 

And  he  chuckled  with  glee  to  think 

That  the  rest  of  his  way  on  the  down  hill  lay 

And  his  wife  would  have  spiced  the  strong  drink. 

A swineherd  was  passing  o’er  great  Toe’s  Head, 

When  he  noticed  a motionless  man  ; 

He  shouted  in  vain  — no  reply  could  he  gain  — 

So  down  to  the  gray  stone  he  ran. 

All  was  clear.  There  was  Oxley  on  one  side  the  stone, 
On  the  other  the  down-hanging  deer  ; 

The  burden  had  slipped,  and  his  neck  it  had  nipped  ; 
He  was  hanging  by  his  prize  — all  was  clear.  ’ 

“ ‘ When  I was  a youth,’  the  same  writer  continues, 
1 there  were  two  fields  in  the  parish  of  Foremark,  Derby- 
shire, called  the  Great  and  the  Little  Hangman’s  Stone. 
In  the  former  there  was  a stone,  five  or  six  feet  high, 
with  an  indentation  running  across  the  top  of  it,  and 
there  was  a legend  that  a sheep-stealer,  once  upon  a 
time  having  stolen  a sheep,  had  placed  it  on  the  top  of 
the  stone,  and  that  it  had  slipped  off  and  strangled  him 
with  the  rope  with  which  it  was  tied,  and  that  the  in- 
dentation was  made  by  the  friction  of  the  rope  caused 
by  the  struggles  of  the  dying  man.’  — C.  S.  Greaves.” 

N.  # Q.,  April  5,  1856. 

44  Similar  Legends  at  Different  Places.  — At 
the  end  of  Lamber  Moor,  on  the  roadside  between  Hav- 
erford  West  and  Little  Haven,  in  the  County  of  Pem- 
broke, there  is  a stone  about  four  feet  high,  called 
4 Hang  Davy  Stone,’  connected  with  which  is  a tradi- 
tion of  the  accidental  strangling  of  a sheep-stealer,  sim- 


APPENDIX. 


393 


ilar  to  the  legend  mentioned  by  Mr.  Greaves  with  refer- 
ence to  the  stone  at  Foremark.  — J.  W.  Phillips.” 

N.  # Q.,  May  17,  1856. 

“ The  Hangman  Stone.  — It  may  be  interesting  to 
your  correspondent,  Mr.  J.  W.  Phillips,  to  be  informed 
that  at  about  five  miles  from  Sidmouth,  on  the  road  to 
Colyton,  on  the  right-hand  side  of  the  road,  and  near 
Bovey  House,  is  a large  stone  known  by  the  name  of 
4 Hangman  Stone  ’ The  legend  is  precisely  similar  to 
that  noticed  by  Mr.  Phillips  and  by  Mr.  Greaves.  — N. 
S.  Heinekebl” 


N.  4 Q.,  May  31,  1856. 

“Hangman  Stones. — Some  years  ago  there  was 
still  to  be  seen,  in  a meadow  belonging  to  me,  situate 
near  the  northwestern  boundary  of  the  parish  of  Litfle- 
bury,  in  Essex,  a large  stone,  the  name  of  which,  and 
the  traditions  attached  to  it,  were  identical  with  those 
recorded  by  your  correspondents  treating  of  Hangman 
Stones.  This  stone  was  subsequently  removed  by  the 
late  Mr.  Jabez  Gibson  to  Saffron  Walden,  and  still  re- 
mains in  his  garden  at  that  place.  I have  a strong 
impression  that  other  4 hangman  stones  ’ are  to  be  met 
with  elsewhere,  but  I am  unable  to  point  out  the  exact 

localities.  —Braybrooke.” 

“ On  the  right  side  of  the  road  between  Brighton  and 
Newhaven  (about  five  miles,  I think,  from  the  former 
place),  is  a stone  designated  as  above,  and  respecting 
which  is  told  the  same  legend  as  that  which  is  quoted 
by  Henry  Kensington.  — H.  E.  C.” 


394 


APPENDIX. 


N.  $ Q.,  June  21,  1856. 

“ Hangman  Stones.  — At  a picturesque  angle  in 
the  road  between  Sheffield  and  Barnesley,  and  about 
three  miles  south  of  the  latter  place,  there  is  a toll-bat 
called  ‘Hangman  Stone  Bar.’  Attached  to  this  title  is 
the  usual  legend  of  a sheep-stealer  being  strangled  by 
the  kicking  animal,  which  he  had  slung  across  his 
shoulders,  and  which  pulled  him  backwards  as  he  tried 
to  climb  over  the  stone  wall  inclosure  with  his  spoil.  I 
do  not  know  that  any  particular  stone  is  marked  as  the 
one  on  which  the  sheep  was  rested  for  the  convenience 
of  the  thief  in  trying  to  make  his  escape,  but  the  Jehu 
of  the  now  extinct  Barnsley  mail  always  told  this  story 
to  any  inquiring  passenger  who  happened  to  be  one  of 
five  at  top,  — as  quaint  a four-in-hand  as  you  shall  see. 
— Alfred  Gatty.” 

I have  little  doubt  that  the  stoiy  told  by  the  “Jehu,” 
which  my  memory  may  have  embellished  a little,  as  is 
not  unusual  with  travellers’  recollections,  was  the  one 
to  which  I listened  as  one  of  the  five  outsides,  and  in 
answer  to  my  question.  The  country  boys  used  to  in- 
sist upon  it  in  my  young  days  that  stones  grew.  It 
seems  to  me  probable  that  a very  moderate  monolith 
may  have  grown  in  my  recollection  to  “a  handsome 
marble  column,”  and  that  “the  lord  of  the  manor” 
was  my  own  phrase  rather  than  our  coachman’s. 

Note  X. 

I sent  two  or  three  copies  to  different  correspondents. 

Note  Y. 

There  are  trees  scattered  about  our  New  England 


APPENDIX. 


395 


towns  worth  going  a dozen  or  a score  of  miles  to  see, 
if  one  only  knew  where  to  look  for  them.  A mile  from 
where  I am  now  writing  (Beverly  Farms,  Essex 
County,  Massachusetts)  is  one  of  the  noblest  oaks  I 
have  ever  seen,  not  distinguished  so  much  for  its  size, 
though  its  branches  must  spread  a hundred  feet  from 
bongh-end  to  bough-end,  as  for  its  beauty  and  lusty 
promise.  A few  minutes’  walk  from  the  station  at  Rock- 
port  is  a horse-chestnut  which  is  remarkable  for  size  of 
trunk  and  richness  of  foliage.  I found  that  it  meas- 
ures eight  feet  and  three  inches  in  circumference,  about 
four  feet  from  the  ground.  There  may  be  larger  horse- 
chestnut  trees  in  New  England,  but  I have  not  seen  or 
heard  of  them. 


INDEX. 


INDEX 


A. 

Abuse,  all  good  attempts  get, 
95. 

Estivation,  321. 

Affinities  and  antipathies, 
268. 

Age,  softening  effects  of,  96  ; 
begins  when  fire  goes  down, 
182 ; Roman  age  of  enlist- 
ment, 183  •,  its  changes  a 
string  of  insults,  186. 

A good  time  going,  272. 

Air-pump,  animal  under,  369. 

Album  Verses,  18. 

Alps,  effect  of  looking  at,  325. 

American,  the  Englishman 
reinforced,  (a  noted  person 
thinks,,,  291. 

Analogies,  power  of  seeing, 
97. 

Anatomist’s  Hymn,  The,  211. 

Anglo  Saxons  die  out  in 
America, (Dr. Knox  thinks,) 
291. 

Anniversaries  dreaded  by 
the  Professor,  and  why,  271. 

Arguments,  what  are  those 
which  spoil  conversation, 
12. 

Aristocracy,  the  forming 
American,  317  ; pluck  the 
back-bone  of,  319. 

Artists  apt  to  act  mechani- 
cally »n  their  brains,  227. 


Assessors,  Heaven’s,  effect  of 
meeting  one  of  them,  109. 

Asylum,  the,  301. 

Audience,  average  intellect 
of,  169  *,  aspect  of,  170  ; a 
compound  vertebrate,  170. 

Audiences  very  nearly  alike, 
169 ; good  feeling  and  in- 
telligence of,  171. 

Author  does  not  hate  any- 
body, 267. 

Authors,  jockeying  of,  43  ; 
purr  if  skilfully  handled, 
57  ; ashamed  of  being  fun- 
ny, 57  j hate  those  who 
call  them  droll,  57  ; always 
praise  after  fifty,  96. 

Automatic  principles  appear 
more  prevalent  the  more 
we  study,  100  j mental 
actions,  161. 

Averages,  their  awful  uni- 
formity, 169. 


B. 

Babies,  old,  186. 

Bacon,  Lord,  331. 

Balzac,  181,  331. 

Beacties,  vulgar,  their  virtu- 
ous indignation  cn  being 
looked  at,  236. 

Beliefs  like  ancient  drink- 
ing-glasses, 17. 


INDEX. 


400 

Bell-glass,  young  woman 
under,  369. 

Benicia  Boy,  not  challenged 
by  the  Professor,  and  why, 
209. 

Benjamin  Franklin,  the 
landlady’s  son,  14,  61,  67, 
94,  102,  162,  163,  300,  361. 

Berkshire,  287,  300,  324. 

Berne,  leap  from  the  plat- 
form at,  344. 

Blake,  Mr.,  his  Jesse  Rural, 
107 

Blondes,  two  kinds  of,  222. 

“ Blooded  ” horses,  42. 

Boat,  the  Professor’s  own, 
description  of,  203. 

Boating,  the  Professor  de- 
scribes his,  199. 

Boats,  the  Professor’s  fleet 
of,  198. 

Books,  hating,  73  ; society  a 
strong  solution  of,  73  5 the 
mind  sometimes  feels  above 
them,  158  *,  a man’s  and  a 
woman’s  reading,  335. 

Bores,  all  men  are,  except 
when  we  want  them,  7. 

Boston,  seven  wise  men  of, 
their  sayings,  149. 

Bowie-knife,  the  Roman  gla- 
dius  modified,  22. 

Brain,  upper  and  lower  sto- 
ries of,  217 ; attempts  to 
reach  mechanically,  227. 

Brains,  seventy-year  clocks, 
225  ; containing  ovarian 
eggs,  how  to  know  them, 
238. 

Bridget  becomes  a caryatid, 
119  5 presents  a breast-pin, 
379. 

Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  admi- 
rable sentiment  of,  110. 

Browning,  Elizabeth,  371. 

Bruce’s  Address,  alteration 
of,  54. 


Bulbous-headed  people,  7. 
Bunker-hill  monument, 
rocking  of,  347. 

Byron,  his  line  about  strik- 
ing the  electric  chain,  92. 


C. 

Cache,  children  make  in. 
stinctively,  249. 

Calamities,  grow  old  rapid- 
ly in  proportion  to  their 
magnitude,  36 ; the  rec- 
ollection of,  returns  after 
the  first  sleep  as  if  new, 
37. 

Calculating  machine,  9 ; 
power  least  human  of  qual- 
ities, 10 

Call  him  not  old,  210. 

Campbell,  misquotation  of, 
83. 

Canary-bird,  swimming 
movements  of,  101. 

Cant  terms,  use  of,  312. 

Carlyle,  his  article  on  Bos- 
well, 343. 

Carpenter’s  bench,  Author 
works  at,  217. 

Chambers  Street,  332. 

Chamouni,  326. 

Characteristics,  Carlyle’s 
article,  64. 

Charles  Street,  333. 

Chaucer  compared  to  an 
Easter-Beurre,  97 

Chess-playing,  conversation 
compared  to,  75. 

Children,  superstitious  little 
wretches  and  spiritual 
cowards,  248. 

Chloroform,  Professor,  the^ 
under,  358. 

Chryso-aristocracy,  our, 
the  weak  point  in,  318. 

Cicero  de  Senectute , Pro* 


INDEX. 


feasor  reads,  182 ; his  trea- 
tise de  Senectute , 189. 

Cincinnati,  how  not  to  pro- 
nounce, 349. 

Circles,  intellectual,  325. 

Cities,  some  of  the  smaller 
ones  charming,  153 ; leak- 
ing of  nature  into,  334. 

Clergy  rarely  hear  sermons, 
33.  , 

Clergymen,  their  patients 
not  always  truthful,  102. 

Clock  of  the  Andover  Semi- 
nary, 348. 

Closet  full  of  sweet  smells,  91. 

Clubs,  advantages  of,  75. 

Coat,  constructed  on  a priori 
grounds,  79. 

Cobb,  Sylvanus,  Jr.,  19 

Coffee,  301,  303. 

Cold-blooded  creatures,  156. 

Coleridge,  his  remark  on 
literary  men’s  needing  a 
profession,  217. 

Coliseum,  visit  to,  342. 

Comet,  the  late,  27. 

Commencement  day,  like  the 
start  for  the  Derby,  112. 

Common  sense,  as  we  under- 
stand it,  17. 

Communications  received  by 
the  Author,  350. 

Company,  the  sad,  302. 

Conceit  bred  by  little  local- 
ized powers  and  narrow 
streaks  of  knowledge,  10 ; 
natural  to  the  mind  as  a 
centre  to  a circle,  11 ; uses 
of,  11  ; makes  a people 
cheerful,  12 

Constitution,  American  fe- 
male, 49  5 in  choice  of  sum- 
mer residence,  324. 

Contentment,  327. 

Controversy,  hydrostatic 
paradox  of,  136. 

Conundrums  indulged  in  by 

2 5 


401 

the  company,  307  ; rebuked 
by  the  Author,  308. 

Conversation,  very  serious 
matter,  6 ; with  some  per- 
sons weakening,  6 *,  great 
faults  of,  12 ; spoiled  by 
certain  kinds  of  argument, 
12  •,  a code  of  finalities  ne- 
cessary to,  12  *,  compared  to 
Italian  game  of  mora,  18  *, 
shapes  our  thoughts,  31  ; 
B/air-ing  of  reported,  46  *, 
one  of  the  fine  arts,  60 ; 
compared  to  chess-playing, 
75  *,  depends  on  how  much 
is  taken  for  granted,  75  *, 
of  Lecturers,  76. 

Cookeson,  William,  of  All- 
Souls’  College,  103. 

Copley,  his  portrait  of  the 
merchant-uncle,  24  *,  of  the 
great-grandmother,  24. 

“ Correspondent,  our  For- 
eign,” 140 

Counterparts  of  people  in 
many  different  cities,  167. 

Cowper,  223 ; his  lines  on 
his  mother’s  portrait,  344  5 
his  lines  on  the  “Royal 
George,”  344. 

Creed,  the  Author’s,  105. 

Crinoline,  Otaheitan,  22. 

Crow  and  king-bird,  34. 

Curls,  flat  circular  on  tem- 
ples, 21. 

D. 

Dandies,  uses  of,  314  ; illus- 
trious ones,  315,  316  j men 
are  born,  317. 

Davidson,  Lucretia  and  Mar- 
garet, 223. 

Deacon’s  Masterpiece,  The, 
309. 

Death'  as  a form  of  rhetoric, 
159  ; introduction  to.  255. 


402 


INDEX. 


Deerfield,  elm  in,  349 

Devizes,  woman  struck  dead 
at,  34o. 

Dighton  Rock,  inscription 
on,  301. 

Dimensions,  three  of  solids, 
handling  ideas  as  if  they 
had,  100. 

Divinity,  doctors  of,  many 
people  qualified  to  be,  33. 

Divinity  Student,  the,  1,  49, 
97,  99,  102,  104,  120,  131, 
149,  150,  158,  163,  221,  227, 
234,  239,  248,  268,  280,  281, 
307,  315,  320,  377. 

Doctor,  old,  his  catalogue  of 
books  for  light  reading,  190. 

Drinking-glasses,  ancient, 
beliefs  like,  17. 

Droll,  authors  dislike  to  be 
called,  57. 

Drunkenness  often  a punish- 
ment, 231. 

Dull  persons  great  comforts 
at  times,  7 ; happiness  of 
finding  we  are,  72. 


E. 

Ears,  voluntary  movement  of, 

10. 

Earth,  not  ripe  yet,  27. 

Earthquake,  to  launch  the 
Leviathan,  85. 

Eblis,  hall  of,  302. 

Editors,  appeals  to  their  be- 
nevolence, 357  ; must  get 
calluses,  357. 

Education,  professional,  most 
of  our  people  have  had,  33. 

Eggs,  Ovarian,  intellectual, 
237. 

Elm,  American,  284-,  the  great 
Johnston,  285  ; Hatfield, 
287  Sheffield,  287  } West 
Springfield,  287  5 Pittsfield, 


I 288  *,  Newburyport,  288 , 
Cohaspet,  288  ? English  and 
American,  comparison  of, 
290. 

Elms,  Springfield,  286 ; first 
class,  287 ; second  class, 
288 ; Mr.  Paddock’s  row 
of,  292  5 in  Andover,  348, 
349  *,  in  Norwich,  349  j itf 
Deerfield,  349. 

Emotions  strike  us  obliquely, 
342. 

Epithets  follow  isothermal 
lines,  137. 

Erasmus,  colloquies  of,  103 } 
naufragium  or  shipwreck 
of,  103. 

Erectile  heads,  men  of  gen- 
ius with,  7. 

Essays,  diluted,  78. 

Essex  Street,  332. 

Esther,  Queen,  and  Ahasue- 
rus,  374. 

Eternity,  remembering  one’s 
self  in,  244. 

Everlasting,  the  herb,  its 
suggestions,  89. 

Exercise,  scientifically  ex- 
amined, 202. 

Ex  pede  Herculem,  131. 

Experience,  a solemn  fowl } 
her  eggs,  331. 

Experts  in  crime  and  suffer- 
ing, 38. 


F. 

Faces,  negative,  170. 

Facts,  horror  of  generous 
minds  for  what  are  com- 
monly called,  5 ; the  brute 
beasts  of  the  intelligence, 
5 ; men  of,  172. 

Family,  man  of,  24 

Fancies,  youthful,  326. 


INDEX. 


Farewell,  the  Author’s,  380. 

Fault  found  with  everything 
worth  saying,  133. 

Feeling  that  we  have  been 
in  the  same  condition  be- 
fore, 85  *,  modes  of  explain- 
ing it,  86,  87. 

Feelings,  every  person’s, 
have  a front-door  and  a 
side-door,  154. 

Fifty  cents,  a figure  of  rheto- 
ric, 320. 

Flash  phraseology,  312,  313. 

Flavor,  nothing  knows  its 
own,  64. 

Fleet  of  our  companions,  111. 

Flowers,  why  poets  talk  so 
much  of,  278. 

Franklin-place,  front-yards 
in,  332. 

French  exercise,  Benjamin 
Franklin’s,  67,  163. 

Friends,  shown  up  by  story- 
tellers, 71. 

Friendship  does  not  author- 
ize one  to  say  disagreeable 
things,  59. 

Front-door  and  side-door  to 
our  feelings,  154. 

Fruit,  green,  intellectual, 
these  United  States  a great 
market  for,  319  j mourn- 
ing, 372. 

Fuel,  carbon  and  bread  and 
cheese  are  equally,  188. 

Funny,  authors  ashamed  of 
being,  57. 

* Fust-rate  ” and  other  vul- 
garism, 32. 

G. 

Geese  for  swans,  333. 

Genius,  a weak  flavor  of,  3 ; 
the  advent  of,  a surprise,  63. 

Gift-enterprises,  Nature’s, 
63,  64. 


W 

Gilbert,  the  French  poet, 
224. 

Gil  Blas,  the  archbishop 
served  him  right,  59  j mot. 
to  from,  242. 

Gilpin,  Daddy,  283. 

Girls’  story  in  “ Book  of 
Martyrs,”  370  $ two  young, 
their  fall  from  gallery,  343, 

Gizzard  and  Liver  never  con- 
founded, 375. 

Good-by,  the  Author’s,  379. 

Grammar,  higher  law  in,  45. 

Gravestones,  transplanting 
of,  292. 

Green  fruit,  intellectual,  319. 

Ground-bait,  literary,  43. 


H. 

Habit,  what  its  essence  is, 
188. 

Hand,  the  great  wooden,  249. 

“Haow?”  whether  final, 
131. 

Hat,  the  old  gentleman  oppo- 
site’s white,  214 ; the  au- 
thor’s youthful  Leghorn, 
215. 

Hats,  aphorisms  concerning, 
215. 

Hearts,  inscriptions  on,  301. 

Heresy,  burning  for,  experts 
in,  would  be  found  in  any 
large  city,  38. 

Historian,  the  quotation 
from,  on  punning,  15. 

Honey,  emptying  the  jug  of, 
, 20. 

Horses,  what  they  feed  on, 
202. 

Hospitality  depends  on  lati- 
tude, 365. 

Hot  day,  sounds  of,  366. 

HeteL  de  VUnivers  et  des 
Elats  Unis , 151. 


INDEX . 


404 


Hcmtsatonic,  the  Professor’s 
dwelling  by,  299. 

Houses,,  dying  out  of,  294 ; 
killed  by  commercial 
smashes,  294 $.  shape  them- 
selves upon,  our  natures, 
296. 

House,  the  body  vre  live  in, 
294 , Irishman’s  at  Cam- 
bridgeport,  23. 

Houynhnm  Gazette,  25T. 

II  uc  KLEB.ERRI  es,  hail-storm 

of,  28a 

Hull,  how  Pope’s  line  is  read 
there,  154. 

Huma,  story  of,  9. 

Humankjies,  cumulative,  26. 

Hyacinth,  blue,  258*  27& 

Hysterics,  106. 


1. 

Ice  in  wine-glass,  tinkling 
like  cow-bells,  91. 

Ideas,  age  of,  in  our  memo- 
ries, 36  5.  handling  them  as 
if  they  had  the  three  dimen- 
sions of  solids,  10a 

Imponderables  move  the 
world,  163. 

Impromptus,  1S>. 

Inherited  traits  show  very 
early,  235. 

Insanity,  the  logic  of  an  ac- 
curate mind  overtasked, 
48  , becomes  a duty  un- 
der certain  circumstances, 
48. 

Instincts,  crushing  out  of, 
369. 

Intemperance,  the  Author 
discourses  of,  228. 

Intermittent,  poetical,  306. 

Inventive  Power,  economi- 
cally used,  290. 

Iris,  cut  the  yellow  hair,  83. 


Irishman’s  house  at  Cam- 
bridgeport,  23* 

Island,  the,  45. 


3. 

Jailers  and  undertakers 
magnetize  people,  38. 

Jaundice,  as  a token  of  affec- 
tion, 159. 

John  and  Thomas,  their  dia- 
logue of  six  persons,  61. 

John,  the  young  fellow  called, 
63,  56,  86*  96, 120, 135,  211, 
226,  234,  235s  253,  266,  281, 
365,  314,  320s  352,  358. 

Johnson,  Dr.,  his  remark  on 
attacks,  136  j lines  to 
Thrale,  183. 

Judgment,  standard  of,  how 
to  establish,  15. 


X. 

Keats,  223. 

Keble,  his  poem,  378. 

“ Kerridge,”  and  other  char 
acteristic  expressions,  130. 

Kirke  White,  224. 

Knowledge,  little  streaks  of 
specialized,  breed  conceit, 
10. 

Knuckles,  marks  of  on  brok- 
en glass,  129. 


I*. 

Lady,  the  real,  not  sensitive 
if  looked  at,  236 
Lady-Boarder,  the,  with  au- 
tograph-book, 5. 

Landlady,  61,  93,  128,  369, 
377. 

Landlady’s  daughter,  19, 21, 


INDEX. 


405 


66,  166,  167,  270,  281,  372, 
377. 

Latter-day  Warnings,  27. 

Laughter  and  tears,  wind 
and  water-power,  106. 

Lecturers,  grooves  in  their 
minds,  76  5 talking  in 
streaks  out  of  their  lec- 
tures, 77  ; get . homesick, 
172  •,  attacks  upon,  367. 

Lectures,  feelings  connected 
with  their  delivery,  167  ; 
popular,  what  they  should 
have,  168  ; old,  168  ; what 
they  ought  to  be,  169. 

Leibnitz,  remark  of,  2. 

Les  Societes  Polyphysio- 
philosophiques,  163. 

Letter  to  an  ambitious  young 
man,  351. 

Letters  with  various  re- 
quests, 82. 

Leviathan,  launch  of,  84. 

Life,  compared  to  transcript 
of  it,  70  ; compared  to 
books,  161  ; divisible  into 
fifteen  periods,  186  ; early, 
revelations  concerning,  246-, 
its  experiences,  336,  337. 

Lilac  leaf-buds,  278,  279. 

Lion,  the  leaden  one  at  Aln- 
wick, 344. 

Liston  thought  himself  a 
tragic  actor,  108. 

Literary  pickpockets,  59. 

Living  Temple,  The,  212. 

Lochiel  rocked  in  cradle 
when  old,  96. 

Log,  using  old  schoolmates 
as,  to  mark  our  rate  of 
sailing,  110. 

Logical  minds,  what  they  do, 


together,  380. 
Landon,  Letitia,  371. 
Love-capacity,  330. 


Love,  introduction  to,  256; 
its  relative  solubility  in  the 
speech  of  men  and  women, 
331. 

Ludicrous,  a divine  idea, 
109. 

Luniversary,  return  of,  57. 

Lyric  conception  hits  like  a 
bullet,  117. 


M. 

Macaulay-flowers  of  Liter- 
ature, 16. 

“Magazine,  Northern,”  got 
up  by  the  “ Come-Outers,” 
144. 

Maine,  willows  in,  350. 

Man  of  family,  24. 

Map,  photograph  of,  on  the 
wall,  297.  \ 

Mare  Rubrum,  147. 

Marigold,  its  suggestions, 
89. 

Mather,  Cotton,  78,  363. 

Meerschaums  and  poems 
must  be  kept  and  used, 
121,  123. 

Men,  self-made,  23 ; all,  love 
all  women,  268. 

Mesalliance , dreadful  con- 
sequences of,  263. 

Middle-aged  female,  takes 
offence,  34. 

Millionism,  green  stage  of, 
373. 

Milton  compared  to  a Saint- 
Germain  pear,  etc.,  97. 

Mind,  automatic  actions  of, 
162. 

Minds,  classification  of,  1 ; 
jerky  ones  fatiguing,  6;  log- 
ical, what  they  do,  16 ; 
calm  and  clear  best  basis 
for  love  and  friendship,  157,* 
saturation-point  of,  160. 


INDEX. 


406 

Minister,  my  old,  his  remarks 
on  want  of  attention,  35. 

Misery,  a great  one  puts  a 
new  stamp  on  us,  38. 

Misfortune,  professional 
dealers  in,  38. 

Misprints,  56. 

Molasses,  Melasses,  or  Mo- 
lossa’s,  78. 

Mora,  Italian  game  of  con- 
versation compared  to,  18. 

Moralist,  the  great,  quota- 
tion from  on  punning,  15. 

Mountains  and  sea,  322. 

Mourning  fruit,  372. 

Mug,  the  bitten,  244. 

Muliebrity  and  femineity  in 
voice,  263. 

Musa,  304. 

Muscular  powers,  when  they 
decline,  189. 

Muse,  the,  304. 

Musicians,  odd  movements  of, 

100. 

Music,  its  effects  different 
from  thought,  159. 

Mutual  Admiration,  Society 
of,  2. 

My  Lady’s  Cheek,  (verse,) 
186. 

Myrtle  Street,  discovered 
by  the  Professor,  200  3 de- 
scription of,  201 5 garden 
in,  332. 

N. 

Nahant,  324. 

Nature,  Amen  of,  279  ; leak- 
ing of,  into  cities,  334. 

Nautilus,  The  Chambered, 
115. 

Nerve-playing,  masters  of, 
155. 

Nerve-tapping,  6. 

Nerve,  olfactory,  connection 
of,  with  brain,  90. 


Newton  his  speech  about  the 
child  and  the  pebbles,  98. 

Norwich,  elms  in,  349  3 how 
not  to  pronounce,  349. 

Novel,  one,  everybody  has 
stuff  for,  69  ; why  I do  not 
write,  69. 

O. 

Oak,  its  one  mark  of  suprem- 
acy, 283. 

Ocean,  the,  two  men  walking 
by,  98. 

Old  Age,  starting  point  of, 
183  ; allegory  of,  183  ; ap- 
proach of,  185  3 habits  the 
great  mark  of,  187  ; how 
nature  cheats  us  into,  187  3 
in  the  Professor’s  contem- 
poraries, 194 ; remedies  for, 
197  ; excellent  remedy  for, 
210. 

Old  Gentleman  opposite, 
the,  3,  61,  72, 102, 118,  211, 
214,  216,  239,  254,  256,  379, 
380. 

Old  Man,  a person  startled 
when  he  first  hears  himself 
called  so,  187. 

Old  Men,  always  poets  if  they 
ever  have  been,  119. 

Omens,  of  childhood,  250 

One-hoss  Shay,  The  Won- 
derful, 309. 

“Our  Sumatra  Correspond- 
ence,” 141. 

P. 

Pail,  the  white  pine,  of  water, 
244. 

Parallelism,  without  iden- 
tity, in  Oriental  and  Occi- 
dental nature,  290. 

Parentheses,  dismount  the 
reader,  214. 


INDEX . 


Parson  Turell’s  Legacy, 
361. 

Path,  the  long,  338. 

Pears,  men  are  like,  in  com- 
ing to  maturity,  97. 

Phosphorus,  its  suggestions, 
88. 

Photographs  of  the  Past,  296. 

Phrases,  complimentary,  ap- 
plied to  authors,  what  de- 
termines them,  137. 

Pie,  the  young  fellow  treats 
disrespectfully,  93  the 
Author  takes  too  large  a 
piece  of,  94. 

Piecrust,  poems,  etc.,  writ- 
ten under  influence  of,  94. 

Pillar,  the  Hangman’s,  345. 

Pinkney,  William,  7. 

Pirates,  Danish,  their  skins 
on  church  doors,  128. 

Plagiarism,  Author’s  virtu- 

“ bus  disgust  for,  176. 

Pocket-book  fever,  252. 

Poem  — with  the  slight  al- 
terations, 55. 

Poems,  alterations  of,  54  \ 
have  a body  and  a soul, 

117  *,  green  state  of,  120 ; 
porous  like  meerschaums, 
123  ; post-prandial,  the 
Professor’s  idea  of,  271. 

Poet,  my  friend,  the,  117, 
153,  210,  216  et  seq.,  222, 
271,  272,  274. 

Poets  love  verses  while  warm 
from  their  minds,  120  5 two 
kinds  of,  222  *,  apt  to  act 
mechanically  on  their 
brains,  227 

Poets  and  artists,  why  like 
to  be  prone  to  abuse  of 
stimulants,  232. 

Poetaster  who  has  tasted 
type,  356. 

Poetical  impulse  external, 

118 


407 

Poetry  uses  white  light  for 
its  main  object,  58. 

Polish  lance,  22. 

Poor  relation  in  black  bom 
bazine,  34,  102,  120,  253, 
320,  377. 

Poplar,  murder  of  one,  284. 

Port-chuck,  his  vivacious 
sally,  215. 

Portsmouth,  how  not  to  pro- 
nounce, 349. 

Powers,  little  localized,  breed 
conceit,  10. 

Preacher,  dull,  might  lapse 
into  quasi  heathenism,  33. 

“Prelude,”  the  Professor’s, 
359. 

Prentiss,  Dame,  244. 

Pride  in  a woman,  330 

Prince  Rupert’s  drops  of  lit- 
erature, 44. 

Principle,  against  obvious 
facts,  66. 

Private  Journal,  extract  from 
my,  301. 

Private  theatricals,  49. 

Probabilities  provided  with 
buffers,  65. 

Profession,  literary  men 
should  have  a,  217. 

Professor,  my  friend  the,  28, 
84,  95,  106,  129,  136, 144, 
179  et  seq.,  211,  216  et 
seq.,  235,  237,  238,  274,  294 
et  seq.,  309,  358  et  seq. 

Prologue,  51. 

Public  Garden,  333. 

Pugilists,  when  “ stale,”  189. 

Punning,  quotations  respect- 
ing, 15. 

Puns,  law  respecting,  13  5 
what  they  consist  in,  58  ; 
surreptitiously  circulated 
among  the  company,  307. 

Pupil  of  the  eye,  simile  con- 
cerning, the  Author  dis- 
gorges^ 174. 


408 


INDEX. 


Q. 

Quantity,  false,  Sidney 
Smith's  remark  on,  131. 


R. 

Race  of  life,  the,  report  of 
running  in,  113. 

Races,  our  sympathies  go 
naturally  with  higher,  77. 

Racing,  not  republican,  39. 

Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo, 
249. 

Raspail's  proof-sheets,  28. 

Rat  des  Salons  a Lecture , 
67. 

Reading  for  the  sake  of  talk  • 
ing,  161  j a man’s  and  a 
woman’s,  335. 

Recollections,  trivial,  es- 
sential to  our  identity,  243. 

Relatives,  opinions  of  as  to 
a man’s  powers,  63. 

Repeating  one’s  self,  8. 

Reputation,  living  on  contin- 
gent, 72. 

Reputations,  conventional, 
43. 

“ Retiring  ” at  night,  eti- 
quette of,  253. 

Rhode-Island,  near  what 
place,  284. 

Rhymes,  old,  we  get  tired  of, 
20  bad  to  chew  upon,  354. 

Ridiculous,  love  of,  danger- 
ous to  literary  men,  107. 

Roses,  damask,  277,  280. 

Rowing,  nearest  approach  to 
flying,  204  ; its  excellences, 
205  *,  its  joys,  205. 

“Royal  George,”  the,  Cow- 
per’s  poem  on,  344. 

Rum,  the  term  applied  by 
low  people  to  noble  fluids, 
230. 


& 

Saas-plates,  373. 

Saddle-leather  compared  to 
sole-leather,  201. 

“ Sahtisfahction,”  a tepid 
expression,  126. 

Saint  Genevieve,  visit  to 
tomb  of,  343. 

“Saints  and  their  bodies,” 
an  admirable  Essay,  198. 

Santorini’s  laughing-muscle 
235. 

Saving  one’s  thoughts,  31. 

Schoolmistress,  the,  37,  49, 
72,  85,  102,  128,  140,  149, 
150,  163,  221,  222,  246,  248, 
253,  256  et  seq.,  277,  291, 
292,  300  et  seq  , 325,  375 
et  seq.,  380. 

“ Science,”  the  Professor’s 
inward  smile  at  her  airs, 
217. 

Scientific  certainty  has  no 
spring  in  it,  65. 

Scientific  knowledge  par- 
takes of  insolence,  65. 

Scraping  the  floor,  effect  of, 
58. 

Sea  and  Mountains,  322. 

Seed  capsule  (of  poems,) 
243. 

Self-determining  power, 
limitation  of,  105. 

Self-esteem,  with  good 
ground  is  imposing,  11. 

Self-made  men,  23. 

Sermon,  proposed,  of  the 
Author,  101. 

Sermons,  feeble,  hard  to  lis- 
ten to,  but  may  act  induc- 
tively, 33. 

Sentiments,  all  splashed  and 
streaked  with,  277. 

Seven  Wise  Men  of  Boston, 
their  sayings,  149. 

Shakespeare,  old  copy,  with 


INDEX . 


flakes  of  pie-crust  between 
its  leaves,  92. 

Shawl,  the  Indian  blanket, 

22. 

Shortening  weapons  and 
lengthening  boundaries,  22. 

Ship,  the,  and  martin-house, 
252. 

Ships,  afraid  of,  249. 

Shop-blinds,  iron,  produce  a 
shiver,  326. 

Sierra  Leone,  native  of,  en- 
joying himself,  367. 

Sight,  pretended  failure  of,  in 
old  persons,  209. 

Similitude  and  analogies, 
ocean  of,  99. 

Sin,  its  tools  and  their  han- 
dle, 149  ; introduction  to, 
255. 

Smell,  as  connected  with  the 
memory,  etc.,  88. 

Smile,  the  terrible,  234. 

Smith,  Sidney,  abused  by 
London  Quarterly  Review, 
108. 

Sneaking  fellows  to  be  re- 
garded tenderly,  268. 

Societies  of  mutual  admira- 
tion, 2 

Soul,  its  concentric  envelopes, 
295. 

Sounds,  suggestive  ones,  258, 
259. 

Sparring,  the  Professor  sees 
a little,  and  describes  it, 
207. 

Spoken  language  plastic,  31. 

Sporting  men,  virtues  of, 
42. 

Spring  has  come,  239. 

Squirming  when  old  false- 
hoods are  turned  over,  135. 

Stage-Ruffian,  the,  61. 

u Stars,  the,  and  the  Earth,” 
a little  book,  referred  to, 
324. 


409 

State  House,  Boston,  the 
hub  of  the  solar  system, 
150. 

“ Statoo  of  deceased  infant,” 
130. 

Stillicidium,  sentimental,  94. 

Stone,  flat,  turning  over  of, 
133. 

Stranger,  who  came  with 
young  fellow  called  John, 
150,  372. 

“ Strap  ! ” my  man  John’s 
story,  127. 

Strasburg  Cathedral,  rocking 
of  its  spire,  346. 

Striking  in  of  thoughts  and 
feelings,  161. 

Stuart,  his  two  portraits, 
24 

Summer,  residence,  choice  of, 
324 

Sun  and  Shadow,  47. 

Sunday  mornings,  how  the 
Author  shows  his  respect 
for,  211. 

Swans,  taking  his  ducks  for, 
333. 

Swift,  property  restored  to, 
176. 

Swords,  Roman  and  Ameri- 
can, 22. 

Sylva  Novanglica,  288. 

Syntax,  Dr.,  283. 


T. 

Talent,  a little  makes  people 
jealous,  3. 

Talkers,  real,  172. 

Talking  like  playing  at  8 
mark  with  an  engine,  32  { 
one  of  the  fine  arts,  60. 

Teapot,  literary,  73. 

The  last  Blossom,  195. 

The  old  Man  dreams,  80. 

The  two  Armies,  275. 


INDEX. 


410 

The  Voiceless,  371. 

Theological  students,  we  all 
are,  33. 

Thought  revolves  in  cycles, 
85  ; if  uttered,  is  a kind  of 
excretion,  238. 

Thoughts  may  be  original, 
though  often  before  uttered, 
8 ; saving,  31 ; shaped  in 
conversation,  31 ; tell  worst 
to  minister  and  best  to 
young  people,  35  ; my  best 
seem  always  old,  36  ; real, 
knock  out  somebody’s  wind, 
136. 

Thought-Sprinklers,  31. 

Time  and  space,  325 

Tobacco-stain  may  strike 
into  character,  122. 

Tobacco-stopper,  lovely  one, 

121. 

Towns,  small,  not  more  mod- 
est than  cities,  151 

Toy,  author  carves  a wonder- 
ful at  Marseilles,  218. 

Toys  moved  by  sand,  caution 
from  one,  94, 

Travel,  maxims  relating  to, 
341 ; recollections  of,  341. 

Tree,  growth  of,  as  shown  by 
rings  of  wood,  347  ; slice  of 
a hemlock,  347  ; its  growth 
compared  to  human  lives, 
348. 

Trees,  great,  281 ; mother- 
idea  in  each  kind  of,  283 ; 
afraid  of  measuring-tape, 
285  , Mr.  Emerson’s  report 
on,  286  ; of  America,  our 
friend’s  interesting  work 
on,  289. 

Tree-wives,  281. 

Triads,  writing  in,  100. 

Trois  Freres,  dinners  at  the, 
91. 

Trotting,  democratic  and  fa- 
vorable to  many  virtues, 


races, 


42  •,  matches  not 
42. 

Truth,  primary  relations 
with,  16. 

Truths  and  lies  compared  to 
cubes  and  spheres,  138. 

Tupper,  19,  377. 

Tupperian  wisdom,  331. 

Tutor,  my  late  Latin,  his 
verses,  321. 


U. 

Unloved,  the,  370. 


V. 

Veneering  in  conversation, 
173. 

Verse,  proper  medium  for 
revealing  our  secrets,  71. 

Verses,  album,  18  ; absti- 
nence from  writing,  the 
mark  of  a poet,  245. 

Verse-writers,  their  peculi- 
arities, 354. 

Violins,  soaked  in  music, 
123  ; take  a century  to  dry, 
124. 

Virtues,  negative,  320. 

Visitors,  getting  rid  of,  when 
their  visit  is  over,  20. 

Voice,  the  Teutonic  maiden’s, 
262  ; the  German  woman’s, 
263 ; the  little  child’s  in 
the  hospital,  264. 

Voices,  certain  female,  260, 
261 ; fearfully  sweet  ones, 
261 ; hard  and  sharp,  264 ; 
people  do  not  know  their 
own,  265 ; sweet  must  be- 
long to  good  spirits,  265. 

Voleur , brand  of,  on  galley 
rogues,  126. 

Volume,  man  of  one,  173. 


INDEX. 


W. 

Walking  arm  against  arm, 
21  *,  laws  of,  84  5 sanctioned, 
200  ; riding  and  rowing 
compared,  203. 

Wasp,  sloop  of  war,  251. 

Watch-paper,  the  old  gen- 
tleman’s, 257. 

Water,  the  white-pine  pail 
of,  244. 

Wedding,  the,  380. 

Wedding-presents,  the,  377. 

Wellington,  gentle  in  his 
old  age,  96. 

What  we  all  think,  177. 

Will,  compared  to  a drop  of 
water  in  a crystal,  101. 

Wtillows  in  Maine,  350. 

Wine  of  ancients,  78. 

Wit  takes  imperfect  views 
of  things,  58. 

Woman,  an  excellent  instru- 
ment for  a nerve-player, 
156  ; to  love  a,  must  see 
her  through  a pin-hole, 
271  ; must  be  true  as  death, 
330  ; marks  of  low  and  bad 
blood  in,  330  ; love-ca- 
pacity in,  330  5 pride  in, 
330  5 why  she  should  not 
say  too  much,  331. 

Women,  young,  advice  to, 
56 ; inspire  poets,  221  $ 
their  praise  the  poet’s  re- 


411 

ward,  221  *,  first  to  detect 
a poet,  222  all  men  love 
all,  268  *,  all,  love  all  men, 
269  5 pictures  of,  270  ; who 
have  weighed  all  that  life 
can  offer,  337. 

Woodbridge,  Benjamin,  his 
grave,  292,  294. 

World,  old  and  new,  com- 
parison of  their  types  of 
organization,  289. 

Writing  with  feet  in  hot 
water,  8 5 like  shooting  with 
a rifle,  32. 


Y. 

Yes  ? in  conversation,  21. 

Young  Fellow  called  John, 
63,  76,  86,  93, 120, 135,  211, 
226,  234,  235,  253,  266,  281, 
307,  314,  320,  372,  378. 

Young  Lady  come  to  be  fin- 
ished off,  11. 

Youth,  flakes  off  like  button- 
wood  bark,  185  ; American, 
not  perfect  type  of  physical 
humanity,  206 ) and  age, 
what  Author  means  by, 
242 

Z. 

Zimmermann,  7. 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

APR  14  133? 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLiwGi:* 


